Lessons in Housekeeping
by VoicesoftheSoul
Summary: Tiesa, called Tori, is an eighteen-year-old Lithuanian immigrant in 1920's America, and she's looking for a job. Alfred Jones, the playboy son of a wealthy ambassador, gives her one. AU human, some original characters. Fem!Lithuania x Amercia
1. Chapter 1

**Lessons in Housekeeping** – Prologue

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own Hetalia

**(A/N)** This is an AU human Hetalia fic, with romance between Fem!Lithuania and just plain old man America. I do happen to like regular LietAm, but Fem!Liet felt better and easier to write about in this instance (plus I like it just a microscopic iota more!). There are a couple OC's in here, but they won't dominate the story; they're necessary for the plot :). So, all my rambling aside, enjoy! Also, there may be some smexy smex smex later…just warning ya' (totally not sure yet, though).

**June 23rd****, 1916**

The day was warm, but Alfred F. Kirkland was inside. He sat in the parlor, picking at loose threads in the couch that his mother had purchased. _Dad'll be really pissed, that's for sure…_But his father wasn't there to see the atrocity he'd committed on the furniture.

_But I don't care about how mad he'll get…not anymore._

He clenched his little fists and covered his eyes. At ten years old, Alfred knew the difference between right and wrong. Running and hiding from your dying wife was wrong, especially if the only family member left to keep her company was your son. _It's not fair!_

There was a platter of fruits and cheeses in front of him, left by some of his mother's friends a few days before. But even if the cheese wasn't stale and the fruit not rotting, Alfred wouldn't have eaten any. His appetite had been absent for the past week, dwindling with his mother's health.

The sun filtering in the windows dappled the room, casting dim shadows of the leaves and trees that grew outside. It was too cheerful – it should've been raining, with lots of booming thunder and bright lightning, with howling wind that blew through the house like a hurricane as the finishing touch. The weather should've matched his mood.

"Alfred?" A nurse had materialized in the open doorway, sympathy present in her eyes and in her voice. "She wants to see you." He nodded, keeping his eyes glued to the floor – Alfred didn't think he could handle any more pity-filled looks.

_She's probably thinking, "Poor kid", _he thought, sliding off the couch and solemnly following the nurse – he hadn't taken the time to learn her name, or those of any other nurse or doctor currently lodged in the house as they documented and observed his mother's final days.

_"His father doesn't even care enough to show up at his wife's death bed. The kid might as well not have any parents." – _that's _what she's thinking…_

He trailed the nurse down the hall to the three-season porch, located towards the rear of his family's luxurious mansion. They stopped in front of the French-doors, and the nurse placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Try not to upset her," she said quietly. Then she knelt down so that they were staring eye to eye. "It's okay, Alfred. Just go in there, and let your mom know that you love her. That's all she wants." Alfred nodded, reluctant to open the doors. _I don't want to see her._ He felt horrible, but the little boy would rather remember his mother for the strong, eccentric person she used to be than what was left of her now.

But he didn't have a choice it seemed, because the nurse opened the doors instead and gently pushed him inside. It was sunny here, too. The room was made up of mostly windows which could be easily removed in warm weather, and replaced just as easily when the winter months came around.

It was his mother's favorite room.

Despite the fact that it was June, the windows hadn't been taken down. His mother was plagued with chills constantly, even in the suffocating heat of a Virginia summer. Her body was failing – that's what the doctors had told him. Speaking of his mother, he could see her.

There were various doctors and nurses, all buzzing around her like bees inside a hive - except their queen was gravely ill. She was lying in her bed, which had been taken from upstairs and put down on the porch – the already present furniture had been pushed to the side to make room for the dying woman.

_There's nothing they can do for her anymore – why won't they just leave? _Alfred wanted his house back. He wanted the doctors to take their medicine and their needles, their bad news and their serious faces, and just leave.

"Alfred…" his mother smiled. "Come here." She beckoned weakly with one emaciated, frail arm. She looked at her doctors and nurses. "Could you leave? I'd like a moment with my son." They all complied, filing out the doors that Alfred had just entered through, closing them quietly.

Alfred ran to his mother's bedside the moment he was sure the doctors and nurses were gone. "Mom!" he collapsed beside her, body racked with silent sobs, fingers tangled in the sheets. _This isn't happening…I won't let it!_

"Alfred…" he felt her hand, gently stroking his hair. "Don't cry, Alfred." She patted the bed beside her. "Come on up."

He crawled onto the sheets and lay beside his mother, crying into her shoulder. _She used to be so different! How did this happen?_

Alfred's mother had been such a strong willed individual, eccentric and passionate about everything. She filled every day with new surprises, and managed to distract him from the fact that his father was never around. But there could be no distracting, not this time.

His father's absence was like a gaping hole in the Mona Lisa, a car that was missing the steering wheel. Again, Alfred was filled with anger and disbelief. _How could he? He can come back anytime he wants, but he's NOT HERE!_

"D-dad…" he managed to hiccup, desperate for some way to relieve his feelings of rage and betrayal that were boiling inside of him. His mother knew immediately what her son was trying to say, how he felt, and all of his thoughts. She planted a light kiss on his forehead.

"Don't be angry with your father…he's got work you know. It's a hard job; being an ambassador…he'd be here if he could, love. Shhhh…"

_Stop defending him – he doesn't deserve it…_

"Alfred, look at me." Alfred took his face out the folds of his mother's robe, and looked at her. Her once stunning, beautiful visage was gaunt – the cancer had eaten and destroyed everything. Her hair, once like corn silk, was faded and brittle. Her wide blue eyes were tired, the light in them dulled by drugs and crushing fatigue. Her body was thin, too thin – it had once been very shapely.

_I don't want to look…_not that long ago, she had been the woman that all the men wanted, and basked happily in the attention she'd received (his mother was not known for being modest). Now, she would die…the loneliness of death held at bay only by the presence of her young son. None of the men she had entertained in his father's absence, whether it was for a week or half a year, had shown up. He didn't want them too – Alfred had never liked them much.

"Alfred, I love you. There are no words to describe how much – someday, you'll have children of your own…then you'll know, darling."

He took a shaky breath. "I love you too, mom." She smiled, and tried to flatten his ever present cow-lick. It sprung back to its vigilant and perky stance, saluting the ceiling – just like always.

"Look at you," she began wiping tears from her son's cheeks with her thumb. "…almost eleven – where did the time go?"

"Mom, don't leave me…" he felt like he was choking on his own misery. His mother, who'd always been there, _always_, was dying. _It just doesn't feel real. _He couldn't think of anything to tell her other than that he wanted her to stay. He wanted his mom to get better, despite what the doctors had told her. He wanted her to take him shopping the way she used too, even though he hated it.

He wanted her to take him to the beach, to the park – he wouldn't even care if she flirted with the driver, or the cashier, or the waiter; like she always did. Alfred wanted everything - more time, an answer, a reason…his father's presence.

"I'm not leaving you, love. Just think of it as a life-long vacation…we'll be together again. Of that, I am sure."

"Mom…"

She was getting quieter, her voice dying right along with her body. The end was drawing near. His mother drew him into a hug, as tightly as she could manage in her weakened state. Alfred just lay beside her, breathing in and out, whiling away the hours in her arms.

Then she spoke, softly and for the last time.

"Arthur…" and she was gone.

Francine Bonnefoy-Kirkland's last words had been her husband's name.

_**Four years later - half way around the world…**_

Tiesa Laurinaitė was being crushed in her mother's arms. She was hugging her back just as fiercely – she could feel her father's strong hand on her shoulder, and the arms of her younger brothers wrapped her waist. A cool breeze blew off the Baltic Sea, which splashed and crashed against the dock they all stood on.

A weathered and beaten suitcase was on the ground at her feet, waiting like a patient dog – a dog she wished would run away.

"I don't want to go…" she said into her mother's hair, eyes shut tightly.

"I know, Tiesa. But it's all for the best, I promise."

This was the final goodbye, involving just the members of her immediate family. Tiesa had already bid farewell to her friends, her aunts, her uncles, her cousins, and her grandparents. They were all still back at the house they all shared – this was a sad, tender moment in the young teen's life.

"I'm scared, mama." How many other thirteen-year-olds had to leave everything they'd ever known? How many had to leave their family and friends, to start all over in an entirely different and strange new country? _Probably not that many…except for me…_

Her father's hand felt heavy on her shoulder, not wanting to let his daughter go. "Be safe," he said. He wasn't really a man of words, especially at a time like this.

"Yes," her mother continued, elaborating on her father's advice. "Keep to yourself – don't go anywhere with any strangers." She held Tiesa at an arm's length, looking at her straight in the eye. Her mother was trying not to let her concern and fear show on her face – she was putting on a brave front, just as Tiesa and her other family members were.

"When you get to New York, your cousin Linas will be waiting for you - after you get off Ellis Island."

Tiesa nodded. She already knew this; they'd gone over it a million times, at _least._ But the young teen knew it made her mother feel better to recite the month's old arrangement, so she humored her.

_He's not even my cousin…_

Linas was a very, _very _distant relative – nobody was quite sure how he was connected to their family. But Tiesa would be staying with him, his wife, and his children – she would be staying with them in the small mining town they called home.

_I don't want to go! _Why did she have to leave her family? Lithuania was _her _home, where her roots and history were. Her fear was welling up inside of her, blocking out every other emotion and thought. It was only her family's welfare that kept her going – in fact, her family's welfare was the entire reason she was going to America.

They'd fallen on hard times. Everyone seemed to be getting sick or owing debts, growing old or having children – in short, things that cost a lot of money, more than they could spare. The entire family was in a desperate situation, and work had been difficult to find for years. Their terrible financial issues, and the war with Poland, had taken a toll on everybody.

Tiesa was the oldest grandchild in the entire family, even at thirteen. The adults – her parents, grandparents, everyone - had decided that sending her overseas was the best way to preserve both her future, and their own. And so, arrangements had been made for her to go live with a distant cousin and his family in a mining town near Pittsburgh.

Tiesa would work, and send part of her paychecks back to support the family. In exchange, she would have a better life. "America is the land of opportunity," her parents had told her. Tiesa had volunteered herself.

_But I would've had to go in the end, anyway. _She loved her family to much to watch them suffer, as she had done the past few years.

A boat's foghorn sounded – it was time to board. Her mother gave her another quick hug before releasing her, trying to hide tears.

"We love you, Tiesa," she said, voice trembling. "Never forget that."

"I love you too, mama." Tiesa had never been so frightened or anguished in her entire life. _Who knows when I'll see them again?_

Her father gave her a hug in turn – Tiesa always felt safe enveloped in his strong arms. "Take care."

"I will, papa - love you."

Lastly, there was Eduard and Raivis. Tiesa smiled at her younger brothers, aged eleven and nine respectively. They stood with their hands in their pockets, trying hard to be tough little men.

"Send us something from America?" Eduard asked, eyes and voice hopeful. Their mother shot him a warning look.

Raivis's expression of gloom brightened. "Yeah!" he exclaimed. "Can you, Tiesa? Pllleeeaasssee?"

Tiesa giggled. "Sure, Raivis. First chance I get, okay?" The little boy grinned happily. She drew him into a hug.

"Don't try to bug Eduard too much, okay? Be good for mama and papa," she whispered in his ear. Raivis nodded and hugged her back, standing on his tip-toes so he could wrap his arms around her shoulders.

Next was Eduard – he stiffened a bit a first, but then relaxed into his sister's embrace. "I'm gonna miss you," he muttered, pushing his glasses up before hugging her in return.

"I'm gonna miss you too – watch after Raivis. He worships you." She ruffled his hair lovingly – she figured she'd take the opportunity while she was still taller than him.

Her father handed Tiesa her suitcase. She was just about to turn and board the ship when her mother called out.

"Wait!"

"Mama, I need to go…"

"Just wait," her mother was holding something, something she'd taken from the folds of her skirt. She pressed it into Tiesa's palm. "Take this – look at it and remember your family…sell it, if you ever need money…"

Tiesa looked at what her mother had given her and gasped. It was a small amber pendant, inlaid in sterling silver with a chain to match - one that was very treasured. It had belonged to Tiesa's long – deceased grandmother. Tiesa's mother had kept it always, even if selling it meant they'd be able to feed them and the entire extended family for a week.

"Mama, I can't take this! It was Grandmother's."

Her mother shook her head. "No, she'd want you to have it." She closed Tiesa's fingers around the beautiful drop of amber.

"I won't sell it, mama," she promised. _It's too special! _Her mother smiled.

The boat's foghorn sounded again, impatient to be underway. Tiesa gave each of them another hug, then hurried up the boarding plank. She waved as the boat chugged away from the dock – her parents were waving back, utterly distraught at the departure of their eldest child. Eduard and Raivis had run down to the end of the wooden dock, the former waving furiously and the latter jumping up and down happily.

_I'm going to miss them…_

Once the coastline of Lithuania was just a faint gray line in the distance, Tiesa turned her attention to the expanse of water before her that was the Baltic Sea. They would be in England eventually, after stopping to pick up other passengers. From there, she would catch an even larger ship that would take her to America.

_What's America like? _She wondered. _Is it really the land of opportunity?_

If only Tiesa knew what fate had in store for her over the coming years…

**(A/N)** Yes! France is America's mother… :D and she's dead :( . Cancer is a scary thing – my own mom had a brush with it. I kind of drew on the feelings I had then to formulate Al's response (luckily it was benign). Sorry if France is your favorite (because he/she is dead), but he/she will be making appearances in some flashbacks later on.

Liet's parents were hard – I didn't want to make them countries, so I kind of had to come up with them. Also, I did some research on Toris/Tiesa's name (Tiesa was the only thing I could find that was a "T" Lithuanian girl name) – and it's Laurinaitė instead of Laurinaitis because in Lithuania, whether your married, unmarried, or a man dictates the ending of your last name.

So, the next chapter will be up soon. Tell me what you thought by reviewing! All comments (good and critical) are appreciated.

**SOME HISTORIC STUFF: **

Ellis Island was the receiving center for most of the immigrants that came to America. It was used until 1924 (or '23, I forget!), when a law, or bill, or amendment or something was passed to restrict the flow of immigrants coming into the United States. One in three U.S. citizens can trace their ancestry back to Ellis Island :D (Interesting fact).

Baltic amber is pretty…look up some pictures XP

There was a war between Poland and Lithuania in 1919 – 1920…both sides say different things about the conflict, but basically the Poles said the Lithuanians were collaborating with Russia to try to take over Poland, and took Vilnius (Lithuania's capital). Lithuania took it back. Read it up on Wikipedia if you want to learn more in depth (and more accurately!) about the issue.

Also – a good number of Lithuanian immigrants settled in Pennsylvania. Some of them became miners, and there were a bunch of mines everywhere (and still are) in Pennsylvania. Some of 'em are around Pittsburgh (love that city)!

Thanks – V.o.t.s.


	2. Chapter 2

**Lessons in Housekeeping** – Chapter 1

**DISCLIAMER: **I do not own Hetalia

_**November 1**__**st**__**, 1925, the Kirkland Virginia Estate**_

Alfred was woken by singing outside his window. _No, not singing…birds. Lots, and lots, of birds… _He had a pounding headache from the night before; it felt like some dagger-toothed animal was slowly gnawing his brain into mush from the inside out. He opened his eyes, and a fresh helping of pain was registered as the late-morning light reached his retinas.

_Shouldn't the damn things have migrated by now?_

He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the brightness and escape from the discomfort at the same time. Some sheets rustled next to him. _What?... _He rolled over, and came face to face with a very attractive, very naked young woman about his age -_ I hope…_

"G'morning," she purred, tracing a slender hand all over his body. "That was some party last night."

_The party…_it all came rushing back to him; the costume party he threw, all the drinks he downed, in addition to dancing the night away - and eventually sleeping with - with the woman beside him. _ Candy! That's her name._

"Wasn't it?" he grinned, turning on the charm. "You're a great gal, Candy, and I mean _great_." The buxom blonde giggled, twirling a strand of his hair around her finger.

"Not as _great _as _you_ are, _Mr. Jones_," she said his name quietly, kind of dirtily actually. Candy then choose that moment to press her own lips against his, her nimble fingers sliding underneath the covers. Alfred moaned, feeling his arousal. The two of them were just getting into the good stuff when they were interrupted, rather unexpectedly.

The door burst open, and in marched Irene – his housekeeper. Her graying hair was messy, and she was dressed in civilian clothes instead of her uniform; her lined face was one of fury.

_What could that crazy old bat _possibly_ want?_

Candy shrieked, pulling the covers up so her front was covered, accidentally baring Alfred in the process. He threw his hands down to cover himself – he was a ladies man, yes, but not an _old_ ladies man.

"Candy – don't!" This situation just got weird.

Irene's eyes widened and an expression of pure disgust settled on her features. _What the hell does she want? _Alfred thought again, this time angrily. He'd been getting to close to the best part when the old hag had ruined the mood – and not to mention the physical consequences of leaving off where he did. His lower region was beginning to get sore…_dammit!_

"Good morning, Irene," he said cordially, as if he had actually walked down into the kitchen for breakfast rather than experience _this _awkward circumstance. _It's not like she hasn't walked in on me before…maybe she's jealous._ "Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"Horribly," the older woman grouched, her lips pursed and frowning. "Master Alfred," she added, most likely as an afterthought.

"You know, if you keep looking at me like you are, your face could be stuck like that forever," he told her. Irene's expression of disapproval deepened. Alfred turned to Candy, ignoring completely the mental daggers that his housekeeper was surely directing his way.

"Well, Candy, now that Irene is done being a downer, what would you like her to make for breakfast?" Candy scrunched up her nose, thinking – the sheets were still wrapped tightly around her front.

"Don't answer that, young lady," Irene snapped. Alfred was reminded of the second reason why he disliked the woman – she treated him and all of his guests like children. _Jesus, lady, I'm twenty, not twelve…_

"Master Alfred – I quit. I _refuse_ to clean up after you another day longer." She stamped her foot on the floor, motioning wildly with her arms. Alfred just raised an eyebrow at the irate domestic servant.

"You, sir, make the biggest messes imaginable – and I get paid a _pittance_ for looking after you."

_Looking after me? How many times do I have to say this – I am _NOT _twelve!_

"Hey, if you've got a problem with your pay, take it up with my father," he told her, but Irene wasn't stopping. His protest was overshadowed by her rage.

"Just this morning, there were six drunkards on the lawn – _six_! And that's not even counting all the other post-party messes I've had to deal with these past two years. The house is in _complete_ disarray – furniture broken, trash _everywhere_…" Alfred tuned her out.

"And don't let me get started on _you_, Master Alfred. You are lazy, incompetent, a sleaze, and an absolute pain in the ass to work for. You are a disgrace to the name Kirkland, and to your father."

"I've told you before, Irene. It's _Jones _now, not Kirkland." She ignored him.

"I'll be cleared out of this wretched place by tomorrow after noon – possibly tomorrow morning. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got packing to do," Irene spun on her heel, and stalked down the hallway, slamming open doors the entire way.

Candy sighed, wrapping her arms around his torso. "What's she so worked up about?" the blonde began planting soft, arousing kisses on his chest, neck, and face. "That woman should be _glad_ to work for you – your one of the most fun people I've ever met."

"Yeah…" Alfred leaned back and let Candy administer her affections. "But now my father's gonna be pissed as Hell…that's the third maid who's quit because of me. They're on _his _payroll – it all comes out of _his_ pocket." He gasped as Candy's hand again snaked beneath the covers.

"Plus it doesn't look good…for his 'Image'," he managed to wheeze, before Candy's actions drove him to complete incoherency.

"Forget about Irene and your dad – I'm here…"

_Oh, Candy, that won't be a problem…_Alfred figured he could easily forget about his father for the next thirty minutes.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_**Later that day, Arthur Kirkland's England Estate**_

Arthur was sitting at his desk in his study, doggedly filling out paperwork for the next day when the phone rang. It was late at night, too late to be receiving calls. The only person who ever called him at this time of the day was…_Alfred…_He rubbed his aging face exasperatedly. The day had _not _been a good day, and he did not feel like accepting a call from his estranged son. He never did.

He picked up the phone. "You've called the residence of Ambassador Arthur Kirkland – Arthur Kirkland speaking," he spoke formally; just in case is _wasn't _Alfred calling him at this ungodly hour. _But I doubt it._

_ "What's happening over there in Limey Land, pops?"_ Alfred's voice, cracked and distorted over the phone, came out of the earpiece. It was just as idiotic and disrespectful as always. _Bloody fool…_

"What do you need this time, Alfred?" His son rarely even called unless he wanted/needed/desired something - usually it was money. _ I really should cut him off, make him get a job and buy his own house._

_ "Well pops, that old bat you hired to clean and cook just decided to quit this morning – I have _no _idea why, though…" _There was the sound of yelling and crashes in the background – it sounded suspiciously like Irene. _This day just got worse… _Arthur could feel a migraine coming on, starting right behind his eyes just like they always did.

Arthur had personally interviewed Irene, just as he had to the two housekeepers and countless nannies and governesses who'd preceded her. He had needed to make sure that everyone hired wouldn't steal, destroy, or let his son get into _too_ much trouble – good help was hard to find, especially now.

_Image is everything…_the words he let govern everything he ever did.

"Alfred, I can't leave England now. I'll be coming back in a few days, you know that –"

_"But what am I supposed to wear and eat until then? I can't cook, or do laundry…you really should've taught me to do that, right pops?"_

"I don't care," he yelled into the receiver. "Just man up and do _something_ for yourself for once! It's high time you did something useful."

_"Alright, alright…"_ Alfred said something else, but it was too quiet to have been picked up by the telephone. Arthur had no doubt that it was something obscene, directed at _him_ most likely.

"And Alfred…" he still kept a note of steel in his voice. "Don't you _dare _"forget" about the dinner we have scheduled with General Hughes and his daughter on Thursday."

Arthur hung up right after issuing his warning, not wanting to hear his son's response. _That dinner with the General is my last chance to straighten that boy out…_

The weary ambassador rubbed his temples, ready for sleep to take him, along with all of his troubles – at least for the night.

… _and if I don't, he'll be the death of me, I swear._

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_**(Very) Early in morning on November 2**__**nd**__**, at a train station somewhere in Virginia**_

"Esa, Esa, Esa! Wake up – we're, like, here!" Tiesa's eyes snapped open, as the back her head connected repeatedly with the wall of the train compartment.

"I'm up, Felicja, I'm up!" she cried. "Just – " _shake_ "Please – " _shake_ "Stop – " _shake _"Shaking me!" _shake_. The shaking eventually stopped, and a pair of green eyes filled her line-of-sight. "Geez, Esa. You are one of the hardest people, like, _ever_ to wake up."

"That's because being around you makes me so tired…" Tiesa gently pushed Felicja away, stretching her arms and legs as she did so; they were stiff. _ Note to self – sleeping on a train…not so comfortable._ They hadn't had enough money to buy tickets for a compartment with beds.

_Is it still there? _Tiesa put a hand to her neck as she tried to loosen up her elbow, feeling for the necklace that was always present underneath her clothes. _Yes, it is._ She always checked – losing it would be devastating.

Felicja pouted. "Do you really feel that way, Esa?"

"No, I was kidding – but did you _have _to wake me up so suddenly like that?"

Felicja grinned, and tapped the compartment's window with a finger. "Yeah – the trains, like, already pulled into the station. We need to get off." Tiesa stood up and peered out of the window. Sure enough, there were people exiting the train cars and milling about on the platform in the dark, struggling to find luggage, friends, and so on.

Tiesa felt Felicja's hand clamp down on her wrist. "Come on, Esa. Let's roll!" She just had time to grab their bags before Felicja dragged her out the exit.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Felicja ended up getting the both of them lost in the train station – _I don't know how she did it, this place is so small – _so Tiesa had to find their way to the street instead.

"Brrrrrr…it's cold!" Felicja complained. They were lingering on the curb in front of the station, trying to catch a taxi. And that meant Tiesa was trying to catch a taxi, while Felicja sat on her butt and did nothing.

"I said BRRRRRRRR it's _freezing_!" Tiesa was too busy trying to flag down a driver to acknowledge her friend's distress. So far, she had no luck. It was too early for taxis to be driving around – that, and the fact that the town was not-the-biggest was sure to put a damper on their chances.

She was getting nervous. They were all alone on their stretch of sidewalk, in a new town they didn't know anything about. They were two unattended young women, and, and, and, and…the worries and endless (aweful) possibilities ran continuously through Tiesa's mind.

"Esa…Esa!"

"Oh, sorry," Tiesa turned. "Do you want to use my coat?" Felicja seemed to consider this.

"No," she eventually told her. "I just, like, wanted to let you know how completely _miserable_ I am."

"Well, I'm trying to -," out of the corner of her eye, Tiesa saw a taxi come around the corner of a building. "Hang on a second, Felicja!" She raced out onto the not-very-busy street, right into the path of the oncoming car, waving her arms and shouting.

It worked.

The driver honked his horn, and braked just in time. He rolled down his window and stuck his head out. "Crazy bitch! What the hell are ya' doing? Trying to get run over?" Tiesa let the man's words roll right off of her, not registering them in the slightest.

"Good evening," she said, approaching the car.

"Morning," Felicja chirped from behind, correcting her.

"Good _morning_," Tiesa amended. "Could you possibly give me and my friend a ride?" The cabbie, and older man of about fifty with graying hair and tired eyes, looked her and Felicja up and down. He sighed heavily, and muttered something about "never turning down a woman in need, no sir, just wanted to get home to Rachel and go to bed," before saying - rather begrudgingly -"Yes."

Tiesa smiled and gratefully slid into the back seat, small suitcase in hand and Felicja close behind her. She could see the cabbie's eyes in the front mirror, and they kept glancing back to her and her friend at regular intervals.

_I do suppose we look kind of strange…_strange indeed. Most women displayed their aversion to the norms by becoming flappers – Felicja forewent women's clothing, and dressed like a teenage boy. When people asked why, the enigmatic young woman said it was because they were more comfortable.

Right now, Felicja was wearing a rather fashionable ensemble (so she claimed) of flannel slacks just barely held in place with a belt, an oversized men's sweater, and her favorite cap. The only thing that _truly_ fit was her shoes – the only thing available in her size. Tiesa, on the other hand, would look quite normal to any passerby by comparison.

The only thing strange about her would be that she hung around with Felicja. And it was this strangeness, she was sure, that made the driver's eyes check his mirror so often.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked gruffly, stifling a yawn.

"The cheapest lodging in town, please," she told him, then sat back against the seat, getting comfortable again – Tiesa was ready to finish the nap she'd started on the train.

"Like, why do we _always_ have to go to those nasty places?" Felicja cried. The cabbie ignored her and Tiesa just cracked her eye open, raising an eyebrow. "Why can't we ever stay somewhere nice for once?"

"You know we don't enough money to do that," she reminded Felicja, closing her eyes again. "That's why we have to stay here for a while – but don't worry, we'll rent an apartment or something."

Felicja rolled her eyes and harrumphed. She had not been very pleased with their financial situation as of late, Tiesa had noticed. They'd been staying in cheap hotels, eating at cheap restaurants, and buying cheap seats on trains ever since they'd left New York – about a year ago.

_I can't believe we've spent a year on the road._ The two of them had been traveling by car, by foot, and by train all over New England since late last November. They slept when they could, ate when they could, and so on. Occasionally, when they ran low on funds, they'd stay in a town for a while until they'd saved enough to move on – which is what they were going to do now.

"I don't want to stay in this dumpy little town," she moaned. "The locals are, like, probably all inbred weirdoes or something…"

The cabbie turned around. "Excuse me?"

Felicja shook her hand in the air, as if to wave away the insult she'd just dropped. "Like, really – I didn't mean it. It's just that time of the month, ya know?"

_Felicja…! _Tiesa wasn't asleep, unfortunately. Felicja wasn't embarrassed, but Tiesa was. _Leave it to Felicja to discuss personal womanly things with a complete stranger._

"Alright, we're here. Now get out," the driver had brought them to a small, rather run down building. A faded sign was hanging in front of the door, banging and swinging about in the chill autumn wind, and it said _Mary Ann's Inn – Cheap Rooms – Indoor Plumbing – Breakfast Included_, in painted cursive letters. It did not look very inviting.

"Thanks so much," Tiesa said as she handed him a small wad of ones – she'd thrown in a couple extra despite the fact they were strapped for cash. She figured he needed _some_ kind of bonus for driving them at such an early hour, as well as for putting up with Felicja.

"Yeah, _thanks_," Felicja echoed, adding a slight note of sarcasm. Together they stood on the sidewalk and watched the taxi speed away, glad to be rid of its odd pair of passengers. _The poor guy probably just wanted to go home._

"So, are we, like, gonna go in or stand out here in the cold until the sun comes up?" Felicja was pushing on the door impatiently, hand already stationed on the knob – eager to get into a warm bed and escape from the elements.

Tiesa nodded. "Let's go."

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Felicja fell asleep immediately, but Tiesa took longer. _How does she just fall asleep like that?_ She had no idea how her friend managed to sleep on demand. The room they were in wasn't the greatest – no window, one bed…Felicja was stealing all the covers at that very moment. _But I don't really need sheets anyway…_

The carpet was dirty and there was a single bathroom at the end of the hall – one look and Tiesa had decided that she was-_not_-going-to-step-foot-in-_there_-nuh-uh. _I can see why this place is so cheap._ It had cost them five dollars to rent the room for the night, and the old woman at the desk – presumably the Mary Ann from the sign – had said she would charge them a buck-fifty for each additional day they stayed.

She ended up guarding the door – it sounded like there was a couple arguing ferociously two doors down, and another couple who were as amorous as the other was dysfunctional right across from them. Tiesa had experience in places like this, and knew that usually it was better to stay awake than to sleep. _Tomorrow, Felicja's staying up, and _I'm _going to sleep…unless she doesn't want to, I guess._ _I could manage one more night._

Around six in the morning, Tiesa decided to go get them some breakfast – no way she was going to eat the food at the inn, not after what she'd seen. She slipped her favorite, simple dress over her head, and did her hair in a braid. It was the only thing she could really do to keep the long, wavy locks out of her face – Tiesa was too timid to cut it short, as was the fashion. _I don't think I'd be able to pull it off._

She shrugged on her worn, knee-length coat in the reception area. Presumably-Mary-Ann, who'd checked them in, was asleep at the front desk. Tiesa opened the door, and greeted the brisk fall breeze with a smile. _Felicja's wrong – this town isn't very dumpy at all!_ She strolled along the sidewalk, passing quaint storefronts and brick buildings. It was still dark out - the sun was staying below the horizon later and later as they approached winter. But her way was lit by street lamps, and the headlights of passing cars, the drivers heading to work.

Tiesa stopped in a little corner grocery store. There, she purchased a loaf of bread, some milk, cheese, jam, and a newspaper. She handed over the money regretfully – _There goes another five bucks…but we _do _need to eat._ "Thank you," she said.

"Have a nice day, Miss," said the shopkeeper.

Felicja was up when she got back to their room, short hair mussed but already dressed. "There you are, Esa! I was, like, sooo worried," she dug into the bread, happily spreading jam on a hearty slice with the some of the cheap silverware they always carried with them.

Tiesa busied herself with spreading jam on her own slice of bread, and coupled it with a piece of cheese. "We'll have to finish the cheese and milk today – those'll spoil, but the bread and jam should keep."

"Mmmmphh. Channnn ahhhh –"

"Felicja!" she laughed. "I can't understand you when you talk like that."

Felicja swallowed her mouthful of bread and cheese. "I _said_ - can I have some milk?"

"Oh, sure," Tiesa handed the glass bottle to Felicja, who popped off the cap and drank a few swigs. She wiped off the top and handed it back. "Here."

"…Thanks," Tiesa gingerly accepted it and drank from the bottle herself, careful not to let the rim touch her lips like they did Felicja's. _Gross, gross, gross…_sure they were best friends, but that didn't mean the concept of hygiene had to go completely out the window.

"So, like, what's the plan for today?"

"The plan for today…," Tiesa leafed through the newspaper until she came across the want ads, and extracted them from in-between the sports pages and the obituaries. "…is to find a job."

"Great!" Felicja snatched the want ads right from her hands.

"Hey!" she cried in protest.

Felicja sloppily tore the page in half, pocketed one, and gave the other one back to Tiesa. "Like, here's what we'll do," she said, lacing up her shoes and pulling on another sweater as she spoke. "I'll take half the paper, and you take the other. Go check out the jobs that sound interesting, and then we'll meet back here!"

"Wow, Felicja…" Tiesa was impressed. "That's actually a really good idea!"

Felicja opened the door. "Psshhh…when will you learn, Esa? Like, all of my ideas are good ones!" And then it was only Tiesa in the room, with nobody for company except half a page of newspaper and the remains of their breakfast.

After cleaning up their garbage, and offering the leftover milk and cheese to the old lady by the front desk – _We'd never be able to eat it all by tomorrow, anyway _– she looked at the want ads.

_Let's see…waitress, waitress, waitress, babysitter, dish washer, waitress…honestly, how many waitresses can one town possibly need?_

She scanned the page, up and down, side to side. Nothing seemed appealing…then she flipped the page over. Someone had rented the advertising space for the entire right side of the page.

_WANTED – _it said, in big bold letters. _Woman needed for housekeeping position; good pay. Prior domestic experience appreciated, no references needed. Come and interview at any time._

It looked interesting, and had held her attention longer than any of the other ads. Tiesa almost felt drawn to it, in a way…_strange._ Listed below was an address, but no telephone number. _Should I check it out? What if it turns out to be some sort of scam, or set up?_

_I know what I'll do, _she decided. _I'll go to the address – if everything looks legitimate, I'll go in for the interview._

_Remember last time…_**how his hands touched you, even though you said no and** – _no! It won't be like that…this time will be safe. _She quickly stifled the memory, pushing back into the darkest recesses of her mind. She couldn't think about that, not now…

And so, Tiesa again put on her shoes and her coat, checked herself in the dingy mirror on the wall, and left. She had no idea what the day would bring, or whether or not the job interview would be successful – she just knew she wanted to try.

_I must be going out of my mind…_

**(A/N) **Okay, this chapter was _ridiculously_ fun to write – Poland is just such a fun character, no what the gender! If you're wondering about the pronunciation of their names…

**Tiesa** = Tee – ay – sa

**Felicja** = Fell – eet – zee – ah

I thought that Felicja was the perfect name for fem!Feliks…oh and "Esa" is supposed to be like "Liet." I wanted to fit that in, somehow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Lessons in Housekeeping** – Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER:** Hetalia is not mine, nor will it ever be.

Tiesa ended up hitchhiking halfway to the address – she had originally asked a cab driver to taker her there, but when he told her how much it would cost…well, let it suffice to say that the money they had left wouldn't cover it. She'd shown the want ad to a few helpful people (to make sure it actually _was_ a job offer).

From the information Tiesa had gathered, she could verify that the person who'd issued the ad had done so very recently, and that they were, in fact, living in a neighborhood where hiring a new maid wasn't uncommon.

_Better safe than sorry…_

She walked the rest of the way – for about an hour and a half. It was kind of a rural road, but it was paved and well-kept at the same time. It wound through the woods, occasionally bringing her past a couple of beautiful, large houses. Every time, Tiesa checked the address – _no, that's not it._

_How far away _is _this place?_ It had been twenty minutes since the young woman had passed the ad issuer's nearest neighbor…at least, the nearest by the way she came. Tiesa was just about to give up and turn back, when she rounded a bend and there it was.

It was a grand old house, made of weathered brick and, obviously, very many rooms. A cobblestone drive led up to the front door, which was also old and beautiful looking. The trees that littered the estate created a lovely dappled-sunlight look, which cast the manor in a homey, golden glow.

_It's...beautiful… _It was apparent that the owner of the house had _a lot_ of money – something the young woman could deduce just by looking at their mailbox (which, in itself, had probably cost more than all the paychecks Tiesa had ever earned). Awed and a bit nervous, she began walking up the slight slope to the front door.

She stopped in front of the steps leading up to the porch. _Do I really want to do this? What if…_there were so many "what ifs", but Tiesa knew she would never get anywhere in life if she started paying attention to each one. _I'm going to do this, _she decided. _So stop worrying!_

But no sooner had she climbed the steps and prepared to knock on the door, when it opened. A rather haggard older looking woman was staring her in the face. In the lady's arms were boxes and books and articles of clothing. "Excuse me!" she snapped, pushing Tiesa aside and stomping across the cobbled drive to a smallish, outdated car that was parked off to the side.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Tiesa said. "Do you need any help?" She started towards her, but the woman held up a hand.

"Stay where you are," she said. "I've met enough floozies and whores to last me a lifetime."

Tiesa was taken aback, and quite offended. She was usually quite respectful to her elders, but this woman had taken it too far. _Floozy? Whore!_

"I'm afraid you are mistaken, Ma'am," she said, crossing her arms. "I am not a floozy, and I am most definitely _not _a whore – I'm responding to an ad in the paper –"

"Already?" the lady cut her off, opening the door of the car and sliding behind the wheel. "He was quick to replace me, wasn't he?"

She pointed her finger at Tiesa and slammed the door shut. "I wouldn't take a job _here_, if I were you, girl." Now her finger was pointed at the house. "He pays a pittance and his son's a menace!"

Tiesa frowned, uncrossing her arms and biting her bottom lip. So far, the owner of this house – presumably the person who'd put the ad in the paper – wasn't being painted in a very good light. _Maybe I should've listened to those "what ifs" after all. _

Then, an obviously masculine voice came from behind her – Tiesa jumped, startled.

"It that the last of your stuff, Irene? I'm _really_ sorry you had to quit…," the owner of the voice was obviously putting a lot of sarcasm into his words, which was not lost on the woman who Tiesa now knew was named Irene.

Irene stuck her head out of the car's window and spat on the ground. "Go to Hell!" she slammed the car shut, and struggled to start the ignition – Tiesa could hear the engine turning over.

The man behind her tsk-tsked. "What are you going on about?" the yet-to-be-seen man asked "…oh, are you here about the ad?"

_He's noticed me!_ Tiesa turned slowly, and blinked…then blinked again. Standing before her was a quite attractive looking young man – his blond hair was messy looking, but fashionable at the same time. His body was slightly tanned and muscular – kept in shape by sports and the like she would guess, since he probably didn't do much physical work – and had bright blue eyes that sparkled with mischief and mirth at the same time. The clothes he wore looked like newer, more expensive versions of what Felicja did…except they actually fit him, unlike Felicja.

_I can't just stand here all day _staring _at him…_"Y- yes…," Tiesa held up the half of the newspaper sheepishly – she'd put it in her coat pocket to look off of for the address. "I'm here for an interview."

"Don't take it!" Irene called. The young man rolled his eyes and turned to the older woman.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" he asked irritably. "You're frightening your replacement."

Irene responded by giving flashing the both of them the middle finger. She then pointed to Tiesa for a second time. "Just take the job and wait - then you'll see!" And with the backfiring _bang! _of an old engine, and the squeal of rubber on stone, Irene was gone.

The young – …_and attractive…_ – young man shook his head, now turned back to Tiesa. "Sorry about that," he said with an apologetic grin. "I'm afraid the old bat never took a liking to me."

"Maybe…maybe I should go…," Tiesa started inching towards the steps. _This was NOT a good idea! What was I thinking?_

"Nonsense!" he clapped a hand on her back, and Tiesa stiffened at his touch. He didn't notice, though. "You came all the way from…well, I don't know, but I'm sure it was far." He crossed the threshold, motioning for her to follow.

"And don't worry about Irene – she's just pissed she didn't get any severance pay."

Tiesa looked at the open doorway with an air of caution. _How do I know it's safe? Well…he _seems _harmless…and it would be rude to leave at this point – I'm going to give it a try. _She too stepped across the threshold, and was at once in awe of the lovely interior.

Antique, dark hardwood made up everything from the floors to the trim, and the main staircase. The many windows let a bright, natural light inside that cast the same homey glow on the furniture as the one on the outside of the house.

"This way," the man called from a hallway right in front of her. Tiesa hurried to catch up, following him down a corridor with ornate carpets on the floors and paintings on the walls. _I better say something…if he doesn't say something first._

He didn't, so Tiesa did. "You have a beautiful home, Mister…?" _I don't know his name!_

"Thanks – it's my father's, actually," he said, looking back at her. "And the name's Jones, but _you_…," he winked at her. "…can call me Alfred."

_So he's the son Irene talked about…_

She could feel her face getting red and hot with embarrassment. _No – no first names…formality is best._ "I – I think I'll call you Mr. Jones, if you don't mind." _I hope he doesn't get angry…_Tiesa's fear proved to be irrational, as Alfred just shrugged nonchalantly.

"Suit yourself," they had stopped in front of a pair of oaken French doors, one of which Alfred opened. "Go in and take a seat."

Tiesa entered the room tentatively, taking in the big window, the bookcases and the desk as she did so. There were two comfortable looking armchairs standing in front of the desk – she sat down happily. _My feet are killing me! I _did_ walk halfway here._

Alfred sauntered over to the desk – she was very glad that he kept the study door open – and settled behind it. He leaned back in his chair and placed his shoes on its lacquered surface, picking up an expensive looking pen and fiddling with it.

"So, what's your name? I bet it's pretty," he had said this with ease; like he spoke those words to every woman he met. _I think he does…_Tiesa tried not to blush so hard this time. _Just keep your mind focused on the task at hand – don't read too deeply into what he says._

"It's Tori," she lied. Well, not _lied_. Tori was the name that Tiesa always gave people with whom she was seeking employment – she'd learned the hard way that someone was much more likely to hire a girl with an American-sounding name. She hadn't changed her surname, however, like so many other immigrants she'd met. _No, the last name stays._

Alfred opened a drawer and withdrew a piece of paper. Tiesa couldn't help but notice how strong his hands looked. _Stop! Stop thinking like that!_

He scrawled "_Tory_" in the margin with a messy chicken scratch that was barely legible. "And your last name?" he asked.

"Laurinaitė," she supplied. Tiesa watched as he wrote it on the paper – "_Lorenaytay."_ She didn't bother to correct him – correcting the person you were trying to get a job with never really worked out too well. _I'll tell him later…_

He looked up at her again. "So, Tori – do you have previous domestic experience?"

She nodded, and folded her hands in her lap. Mentally and physically she tensed, trying to say the words but at the same time not remember the memories associated with them. "Yes," she finally forced out. "I worked for a gentleman in upstate New York for a while."

**Stop! Stop it! His hands slid further **– Tiesa winced. _Stop thinking about it…_she came back to the moment just as Alfred said something. She shook her head slightly, clearing her thoughts. _Task at hand, task at hand…_

"Sorry," Tiesa apologized. "What was that?"

"You don't steal things, do you?" Alfred was focused on the pen again – he hadn't noticed her little episode. "I gotta ask – old man says I have too."

"Oh…," had she ever stolen anything? There had been a few times…when she and Felicja had needed food…but she had only taken when and what she needed, and never, ever taken personal belongings or things of value. "No, I've never stolen anything," Tiesa answered.

"I'll take your word for it," Alfred put the writing instrument and paper in his pocket, and took his feet off the desk. He leaned forward, looking at her intently. Tiesa stared right back, a slightly pinkish tint spreading across her cheeks. _Why is he looking at me like that?_

But his closeness let Tiesa truly take in his attractiveness. She subtly leaned back in her chair, trying to put add an extra few inches to the feet between their faces. She kept her gaze locked with his – _they look so blue…_

Then Alfred sat up straight, grinning mirthfully from ear to ear. "You know what, Tori? I like you. You're hired."

"I - I am?"

"Sure! Come on – I'll show you around, and then you can decided whether you want to stay _Casa de Jones_ or not," he got up and waltzed out of the room, Tiesa scurrying to catch up.

_Well, he says I can have the job if I want…but do I?_

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_You know, she's not that bad looking,_ Alfred thought to himself as he led Tori around his expansive house, so lushly and expensively furnished. "And this is the upstairs guest bathroom," he swung a door open to reveal a huge bathtub accompanied by a sink and a toilet.

"You wouldn't have to clean this room too often – besides after parties and stuff," he closed the door. Tiesa stood beside him, wide-eyed and very quiet. She only interjected every now-and-then to ask a question like "What's this room?" or to compliment the décor.

_She seems a little introverted and jumpy, though._ Yet, Alfred was intrigued. Tori hadn't responded to any of his advances…or pick-up lines, at least. The thing he said about her name usually elicited a giggle from most women…_maybe she's just not into me._ That kind of bugged him; _everyone_ was into Alfred – even a few men he knew…not that he'd ever go and do stuff like that, of course.

He didn't believe that Tori was her real name for a second, especially after she told him her surname. _Lorenaytay…what a mouthful…do you think I spelled it right?_ _Probably should've asked._ And then there was her accent – slight, but definitely there, like she'd been speaking English for a while. He could not pin it for the life of him.

_It's definitely not French or Italian…if I didn't know better, I'd say it sounded kind of Russian._

"How did you get here?" he asked as they walked down the stairs – he'd shown her the second floor first. "I didn't see any car in the drive other than Irene's."

"I, uh…I walked. After hitchhiking for a bit…," she shrugged her shoulders, as if walking ten miles was not a big deal.

"You _walked_? Wow, Tori…you must really want this job!" she smiled modestly in response.

They came to the kitchen. "This room will be of particular interest to you," he said, leading her into a cozy little room beside the pantry. "This is where you'll sleep – look, you even get your own bathroom!" He turned to Tori, and noticed that she looked a little worried.

"What – too small?"

"No! Oh no, it's nothing like that," she said. "I just didn't know I'd be…_living_ here…"

"Just think of the benefits," he told her. "I'm going to be paying you this time around, not my father – which means you'll get a bigger paycheck. Also, you get to eat my food and stuff, I don't really care. Just be sure to keep the place clean and you're golden." _I gotta get her to say yes…_

He hadn't been expecting a response to his ad so quickly, but wouldn't it be sweet revenge if he could call his father and tell him he'd filled the position in one _day_?

_Pop never would've been able hire a replacement in such a short amount of time…_

"So, Tori - whad'ya think?" he spread his arms wide in a welcoming gesture, putting on his most winning smile. Tori responded by biting her lip and clasping her hands – she looked deep in thought.

"I'll have to think about it…"

_Damn!_

"Alright," Alfred said amiably, but inside his heart was sinking. _Maybe I won't be able to best Pop…and loose the opportunity for a hot housekeeper, too._ But still, he kept a wide grin on his face.

"When you decide, just call this number…," he withdrew the paper with her name on it from his pocket, as well as the pen. He tore off a small section, and wrote the house's phone number on it.

"Here," he handed it to her, and Tori pocketed it in turn. He walked her to the front door, and opened it for her.

"Thank you, Mr. Jones," she smiled, and it made her look gorgeous in Alfred's opinion. "I appreciate you taking the time to interview me, and show me around your lovely home."

"Anytime…just be sure to call me back, even if you don't want the job."

She bowed her head, smiled again, and then walked out onto the porch and down the cobblestone drive. Alfred covertly watched her walk away from the window.

_That babe has no idea what she's got goin' on…_he though longingly, watching her coat sway around her knees with the rhythm of her hips. He turned from the window, and plopped down on a near-by couch. He closed his eyes…thinking about the events of the day and the ones yet to come.

_Pop comes home Wednesday and then there's that stupid thing with General Hugh's and what's-her-face on Thursday…gonna need to gas the car up…_

Alfred's eyes snapped open, and he sat up as he realized. "Shit!" he exclaimed. "I should've called a taxi for Tori!"

**(A/N) **And chapter two is a wrap…oh Alfred…you and your last-minute (or rather, too late) realizations! We get Tiesa's side of things in the next chapter, as well as Felicja's reaction to Tiesa's job, and Alfred has dinner with Arthur, General Hughes, and Josie Hughes…and gets a big surprise…

Also, I'm so amazed my stories are getting talked about on skype...it makes me feel so famous! *_gets shot_*

Tune in next time! ~ V.o.t.s.


	4. Chapter 4

**Lessons in Housekeeping **– Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own Hetalia. If I did, the dubs would be coming out a lot faster and I would probably be Japanese (which I'm not).

Tiesa paced back and forth in the hotel room, her mind a never-ending stream of thought and self-debate. She imagined looking down and seeing floorboards where carpet should've been, right over the spots where her confused and anxious feet had tread again and again, and again...

Curious now, she did. Luckily, no floorboard peeked out from the worn fibers of the carpet. Had that happened the young woman would just have to come to terms with the fact that everywhere she went misfortune seemed to follow like a loyal dog. Even still, Tiesa decided not to tempt fate any longer and sat down on the lumpy mattress with a muffled _whump!_

_What should I do?_

She wanted the job with Mr. Jones, or as he apparently liked and wished to be called, Alfred. She stifled a flutter of something she didn't recognize in her chest before it grew into something she wasn't capable of admitting - because embracing the future meant confronting the past, and that was definitely not something she was ready to do.

And then there was the matter of Felicja - there was only one opening, and how could she abandon her friend like that? They'd been sharing everything from food to homes and jobs since they'd met. Tiesa just couldn't take the position and leave her best friend alone with no one to help her cover the cost of food and shelter – it was horrible and cruel. Plus, she couldn't help but have the sneaking suspicion that her friend had never learned to read English, despite the fact that she'd been in America longer than Tiesa had.

_Things are so complicated..._she undid her hair from its braid, shaking it out in waves around her shoulders. She then preceded to plait and un-plait it, dragging strands through her fingers. Not only was the action therapeutic and calming, but it also helped to untangle the knots left in her hair after riding in the windy bed of a pickup truck - once she'd left the Jones residence and walked back until she'd gotten to a busy road, Tiesa had hitchhiked.

_What to do, what to do..._

She lay back on the sheets, closing her eyes with a sigh. It was times like this that she really began to miss her family. The most recent photograph the young woman had of them all was three years old - she tried to imagine what they looked like now. Mama and Papa would probably have a few more lines on their faces, a few more grey strands in their hair – so overall, not much change. But Eduard and Raivis were the real mysteries.

Eduard had turned seventeen not too long ago, and Raivis was just about fifteen, after all. They'd barely been up to her chin when shed seen them last, all those years ago at the harbor...

_But surely that's changed._

Tiesa was willing to bet anything that Eduard was taller than her now, at least by a few inches.

_He probably looks like a grown man...and Raivis!_

The youngest of the three would just be starting to go through the first of many changes in his life - but Tiesa didn't really know. She wasn't the expert on when _boys_ went through that sort of thing; she just thanked God every day that those years of change and growth were over for her.

Temporarily soothed by these ruminations, her eyes grew heavy with sleep.

_I'm so tired..._

She could feel her heart beat in her feet, for Christ's sake! With all that walking and the additional stress of the day, Tiesa was exhausted. She relaxed and was just about to fall into the void of slumber when the lock jiggled and the door burst open.

"Esa! I got us jobs!" Felicja half shrieked, half sang, dancing around the tiny room doing some type of victory jig, peeling off various layers of warm clothing as she did so. Tiesa sat up, plagued once more by all her wants and the contradictions they all made with what she knew to be good ethics. She put a smile on her face for Felicja's benefit, trying and succeeding to hide her internal consternation.

"Really?" she patted the bed beside her. "Tell me about it!"

Her friend leapt onto the bed, settling in a kneeling position. "Okay, so," Felicja launched into her story, playing up the drama of something that was probably nowhere near as exciting as she would make it out to be.

"There I was, walking down main street..." the blonde used her arms and hands to emphasize her tale. "…walking past stores and stuff - "

Tiesa got comfortable. _I have a feeling this is going to be a long one._

"…and I see the cutest thing, like, _ever_ in a window display. So I go in and the guy's really looking at me weird..." Felicja was wearing a second - or possibly third hand - men's suit. Of course the poor man attending the store would've looked at her strangely! He'd probably never seen a woman in men's clothes before.

"Felicja," she said quietly, sensing a full blown rant coming on from the energetic Pole – one that had absolutely no connection what-so-ever to her bountiful quest for work. Felicia was well-known for getting wildly off topic before even getting to the story she began to tell in the first place. "Does this have anything to do with you searching for a job?"

"No, but I'm getting to the good part!" She caught a glimpse of the exhausted and harried look in Tiesa's face and relented, though reluctantly. "…never mind - it wasn't that interesting anyway." Felicja then brightened. "But at least I got us some work! Down at a diner on the other side of town - they'll even let us rent the flat above the restaurant!

Felicja did another happy little, self-congratulatory dance as Tiesa recalled just how many ads she'd seen in the paper for waitresses_...and that was only half of the ads, too!_ Tiesa didn't want to be a waitress. She'd done it before, and she found the job to be almost completely un-enjoyable.

The crabby people, the poor tips...she wanted to shudder just thinking about it. It was ironic that she favored a housekeeping position over that of a waitress, considering that a housekeeper did just what a waitress did times ten.

"Oh, already?" She hadn't been expecting Felicja to find work quickly...especially given her forward, abrasive manner and odd way of dressing. It's not that she didn't think her friend was unskilled enough to survive in working world, Tiesa just had first-hand experience with just how intimidating – and quite frankly, kind of rude – Felicja could seem at first glance.

Felicja halted mid-twirl, whirling to face her with her hands on her hips. "Alright, Esa. Spit it out - whas'sa matter?"

"It's...well...," what could she say? That she'd already found a job that she wanted, and it didn't involve waiting on table after table of men headed to the morning shift at the office/plant/factory, or the occasional, miraculously polite and considerate customer?

"I think I've found a job, too," She said brightly. _Now what, Tiesa? Where to go from here…how do I tell her? How will she react? _

"Really? Tell me about it! How much will they pay us?" Felicja's face had taken on a degree of seriousness; this happened every once in a while when she thinking hard about something, like choosing between two job offers for instance.

_She doesn't get it...this job is only open for one person._

"Well, it's a housekeeping position," Tiesa began, and she saw a flash of something not-good in her friends eyes. She knew that look, and she knew it well – nothing good ever came of it.

"Don't tell me you actually took the job...," Felicja cut her off, a look of disapproval plastered on her face like a bad paint job.

Tiesa couldn't help but feel indignant – she could not understand her friend's disdain. _Why not? And besides, she took the waitress ones without asking me, so _I_ have the right _too_! _Felicja hadn't even given her a chance to explain, a chance to redeem herself before automatically assuming that Tiesa had made a decision - and a faulty one at that.

"Don't you, like, remember what happened the last time we worked as housekeepers?" Felicja's eyes were narrowed, scrutinizing. She hadn't even given Tiesa anytime to respond before disparaging her further.

Tiesa had to take yet another moment to stifle the memory, which had resurfaced like a monster from the shadows, waiting for _its_ name to be called as to summon_ it_ to the world of light.

**You hated his touch, it felt like ice and you wanted nothing more at that moment to be back at home, with your family and not in this strange and hostile land that had brought you more anguish than prosperity…**

"Of course I remember!" she snapped, more harshly than she meant too. She bit her lip and cast her eyes downward, ashamed of her outburst. "This...this time is _different_."

"Oh? How are you so sure?"

_Just let me have this, Felicja, please..._Tiesa thought of Mr. Jones's smile, his bright open face and his boisterous manner. This employer held no similarities to the previous, she could feel it. "It's different, I swear!"

The Pole sniffed, whipping her cropped hair to side as if it were still long. "I'm _totally_ not buying it. I'm _not_ going to take that job, and you shouldn't either."

_Well good, because it's not for you anyway!_ What Tiesa needed and wanted was her friend's support...and that was something she was definitely not feeling at the moment.

"Can you just trust me, please?" she pleaded. _For once, think of me and what I want..._

Felicja's face darkened. "Fine, be selfish like that!" Tiesa felt an immediate flash of irritation. _Selfish - !_

Who had taken care of Felicja when she was ill, despite being ill themself? Who always let the Pole have her way, who was always there to support and encourage her when no one else had? Who covered most of their rent while they were living in New York? Who took the responsibility to do things like laundry, food, and all those other menial tasks of adulthood?

_Me! _Tiesa thought furiously. She had a million things she wanted to say right then, but the awful anger she was feeling choked up her throat and twisted her tongue –she couldn't have said anything even if she tried.

Felicja grabbed her shoes and her oversized coat, opening the door. "…but until you like come to your senses, I'm gone." Her friend turned and faced the hallway. "I can't stand to see you get hurt again, Esa…take the job if you want but _don't_ come crying to me when things go bad."

The door closed, surprisingly quiet given the fury of the person performing the action. Tiesa felt her throat tighten with a feeling of sadness and betrayal; her fists tightened with determination and chagrin. She had found a sense of purpose - proving Felicja wrong.

"Things won't go bad," she whispered, to herself, the absent Felicja, and the unnamable being that haunted her in her nightmares and sometimes even during the day. "And if they do, I'll _make_ them go right. Just wait, you'll see..."

The strong words reverberated with power and resolve in the emptiness of the rented room, but deep in her heart Tiesa sincerely wished that Felicja was still there to hear them.

_Felicja...come back..._

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

_**November 5**__**th**__**, the Virginia Kirkland Estate**_

Alfred hated his father's visits with a yet to be rivaled burning passion. And even though this was technically his father's house, the older gentleman treated the place like a vacation home located within the deepest circles of Hell - in other words, he wasn't around much. And Alfred had not the slightest clue as to why his father had decided to come back at this particular time.

"So you're telling me you came all the way from Limey Land just to eat dinner with a general and his dame?" he asked incredulously, because he was not anywhere _near_ to believing the flimsy excuse for his father's trip to the states that had been provided upon inquiry.

"It's not his dame," his father had replied testily, taking his sweet time unpacking a small suitcase and stowing its intents away in a mahogany dresser.

_He's not staying long, thank the merciful Christ._

"…it's his daughter and her_ name_ is Josephine...for God's sake Alfred, have a little respect – and use proper English. That horrid slang makes you sound like you didn't even get a primary education."

"Oh _dear_," Alfred fussed in a silly voice, mockingly so. "What_ever_ will the rest of society think of you when they find you _neglected to teach me grammar_!"

_I'll give you respect when you give _me _some, Pops._

The young man sighed heavily and leaned against the doorframe to the guest bedroom. He'd refused to vacate from the master, and his father had given him no shortage of nasty looks as he lugged the small yet heavy leather suitcase down the hall to the rarely used and rather less decadent room. In fact, he'd even made the place a bit messy, because he knew just how much his father liked everything nice and squared away.

"Alfred," the older man put away his last neatly pressed shirt, closing the wooden drawer with a resolute _shhhhnick!_ "Come to the study with me. We need to have a talk." He left the room and Alfred lollygagged along behind, expecting a verbal thrashing for both his blatant disrespect and the fact that he was being…well, to put it simply, a dick.

_What can he do to me, anyway?_

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Arthur sat in his chair behind his desk in the study, Alfred situated right across from him with his feet put up on the meticulously clean and organized surface. He was already leaving smudges on the wood's glossy – _expensive _ – finish.

_I'm not made of money, dammit._

"Alfred," Arthur frowned, feeling a slight throb in his temple. "Feet…down…_now_." He tapped his son's loafer clad foot to give his demand more emphasis and urgency. Alfred rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, and slouched in his chair.

_He's doing all this on purpose..._

The entire day had been going along fine until Arthur had actually _come home_. He could sense that his stay this time wasn't going to be pleasant (they almost never were) from the moment Alfred had picked him up at the train station. First he had come home to find the immaculate, classy residence he'd left behind in a complete shambles - _I would've thought he'd have hired someone to tidy up the place by now_ - then Alfred had outright refused to remove his things from Arthur's bedroom! His son's blatant disregard for his authority continued to surprise him to no end, even after all these years. Arthur could feel the beginnings of yet another offspring-induced migraine coming on.

_The nerve..._he was nursing a cup of tea, a drink he'd taken a particular affinity to during all those months and years in England.

"Now then," he set down the Earl Grey, taking care to place it on a coaster so the little china cup wouldn't leave ugly discolored rings on his desktop. "Alfred, I've been thinking..."

Yes, thinking and planning he had been. Arthur was sick of his sons wild behavior - the boy was costing him, and in more ways than one. He was burning holes in Arthur's pockets, trashing the estate, and embarrassing him with his public displays of – what could be loosely called – "_affection_" and wealth. Alfred was hurting Arthur's reputation, and something had to be done. It might even hurt his career in the long run.

_Even the wildest horse can be broken; you just have to find the right size bit._

"Alfred, you are completely out of control," Arthur's hands were clasped in front of him, professional and businesslike. His palms were getting damp. Alfred's only response was a snort – he was not taking this very seriously.

"I've asked you time and time again to clean up your act, and time and time again you've disappointed me."

Alfred mumbled something unintelligible.

"What was that?" he asked, eyebrows raised, lips pressed into a firm line.

"Nothing, pops."

Arthur gave his son an ineffectual sharp look and continued. "Countless nannies and governesses I've hired have quit all because of you - and now, three maids, including Irene? Alfred this childish behavior of yours _has_ to stop."

There was no response from the young man slouching down in his chair across the way. In fact, Arthur could just barely see the top of his head. "Sit up," he snapped. "You're twenty-years-old, start acting like it dammit!"

Slowly, Alfred sat up. Each movement was calculated, Arthur knew, deliberately orchestrated to piss him off.

_That's it - any pity I would've felt for him otherwise is now absent. He'll get no sympathy from me._

"Alfred, I'm afraid that something must be done to rectify your actions these past few years. _You're out of control_," he repeated in a vain attempt to drive the point home, right through his son's think skull. "…and because of that I'm afraid that you have forced me to do something rash."

"What are you going to do? I'm too old to be shipped off to boarding school," Alfred was grinning, thinking he was invulnerable to his father's authority and punishments now that he was a man - legally, at any rate. The matter of whether or not his maturity was the level of an adult was still being questioned.

_Well, that's just what he thinks...and he's wrong._

"Alfred," Arthur began, sitting up even straighter behind the desk and raising his chin high. "…when we go to dinner with General Hughes and his Daughter tomorrow, I want you to be on your best behavior – no cussing, no crude humor. I want you to act like a gentleman, the way I tried to teach you."

Alfred raised a cocky eyebrow, but Arthur could see right through his son's façade of assuredness - the young man was confused; he'd been expecting a punishment or reprimand of some sort…at least one that he hadn't heard before.

_Oh, it's coming._

"Why?" his son asked.

"Because you're going to be spending the evening with your fiancée and father-in-law too be," Arthur told him, quite forwardly. No frills, no build-up. He waited a moment, watching for a reaction, but it seemed that his answer still hadn't sunk in. It was almost as if Alfred hadn't understood what his father had said.

_I'm speaking plain English…_the boy was just sitting there, blinking and staring. Arthur decided to spare his son the challenge of kicking his brain into gear and figuring out what he had meant. He didn't think he would be able to stand that dumbfounded look on Alfred's face for another moment.

"You _are_ going to marry Josephine Hughes, and if you don't I'll disinherit you and kick you out onto the street." Arthur sat back in his chair, palms laid flat on the desks surface.

_There. Now he knows his options._

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

_**Novermber 6**__**th**__**, a pay phone off of Main Street **_

Tiesa was standing in front of the pay phone, a nickel held between her forefinger and her thumb, poised to be deposited into the little slot on the side of the machine.

She hadn't been able to find her friend – she had searched from one end of the town to the other for Felicja _all week_ with no results. She had to assume that the young woman had already started her new job, because where else could she be staying? _I really want to apologize…_but you can't apologize to someone who doesn't want to see you, and Tiesa had some decisions to make that required thought.

The words exchanged during the earlier falling out with Felicja were echoing around the inside of her head. They'd kept her up for the past few nights, but sometime around the previous dawn Tiesa decided.

She was going to take her fate into her own hands – she'd call Mr. Jones and tell him she'd start first thing Saturday morning (tomorrow, to be precise). So there she was, standing inside the little square booth, holding her future in the form of a tiny coin.

_Are you ready to do this?_ She asked herself. _So many things in your life have been decided for you. Can you make this choice?_

Tiesa remembered the sound of the door slamming as Felicja stomped out of her life, hopefully not forever. She felt her mama's amber pendant resting between her collarbones, under her coat and dress, being warmed by its direct contact with her skin.

_Yes_, Tiesa firmly decided. _I can do this._ So she slid the tarnished nickel into the coin slot, picked up the phone, and read the number that Mr. Jones had written out for her to the tired sounding operator.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

_**Meanwhile, at the Kirkland Estate**_

Alfred lay on the couch, numb. He couldn't believe it. He, Alfred F. Jones, coerced into marriage by his tight-ass father with the threat of getting cut off and dumped out on the streets.

_It's like something from some fucking Greek tragedy...like Oedipus or whatshername._

He kept expecting his father to grin, laugh, and say "Gotcha!" like it was all some horrible joke, despite that he knew for a fact the older gentleman never made jokes of any kind..._ever_. But that was the one little thread of hope he had to hang onto, and as the hour of their rendezvous with the Hughes' drew closer and closer he started treating it like it was a God-damn lifeboat and he was a passenger on the _Titanic_.

_Maybe this is all a dream...please, merciful God?_

He hadn't eaten anything; his father blamed it on all on his consumption of junk food twenty-four-seven - "There are other things to eat besides burgers, Alfred." - but he knew that it was actually a combination of him being completely mortified and the fact that his father's cooking was probably the worst in the whole world.

His father was currently functioning on auto-pilot, answering calls and doing 'ambassador-type-things' in his office, leaving Alfred alone to stew in his distraught state_. He's technically on vacation right now, and he's STILL working...shit._

And he was still waiting on Tori's call – just one more thing to think about.

_I bet she found work someplace nicer_, he thought bitterly. _Classy, good lookin' dame like her could find a job anywhere._

He rolled over, the couch springs creaking quietly in protest. _It's a shame_, he resigned to the probability that the young woman didn't want the position he'd offered her..._because she seemed kind 'a nice._

Additionally, Alfred would have been able to rub his success in his father's face had he hired Tori. He punched a stiff cushion in frustration with both himself and the rotten hands that the cosmic forces of the universe had been dealing him lately.

…_We need to get new furniture._

Then the cheerful and slightly jarring _briiiiinginginging_ of the study telephone floated down the hall, cutting through his miserable haze. It had been doing that all day as his father took calls from Washington DC, from around the country, and from around the world. Alfred couldn't have cared less.

"Kirkland Residence," the older man's voice was muffled by walls and doors alike. Alfred could just barely make out what he was saying.

_Jones...it Jones, dammit. Doesn't he have an office somewhere he can do this in? Some type of government building miles and miles away?_

"Arthur Kirkland speaking," his father continued, the words sounding mechanical and impersonal.

_Well of course they would - he's been saying them all day. Besides he always sounds that way._ Alfred closed his eyes, ready for sleep to take him

"Who is this?" His father's voice now sounded slightly confused, and wary. "Are you sure you have the right number?"

His curiosity aroused, Alfred opened his eyes and sat up, listening intently.

"Yes, Alfred lives here. What's all this about a job?"

As the realization of who was on the other end of the line hit Alfred like a bash over the head with a frying pan, he leapt up from his stationary position and flew down the hall. His feet thundered on the floorboards, and he narrowly avoiding a few wipeouts while rounding a couple corners. He threw open the doors of the study and burst inside, shocking his father so badly the older man just about started a foot into the air.

"Alfred!" He yelled. "What are you -!" Alfred grabbed the phone from his father's hand, leaning on the desk and ignoring the pestering questions and protestations being sent his way.

"Alfred Jones here," he said, one hand over his exposed ear as to block out excess noise created by his father, who was currently trying to wrest the phone from his son's strong grasp. Alfred tightened his grip on the plastic device.

"_Mister...Mr. Jones...?" _ Though he had only heard the slightly-accented voice once, it was immediately recognizable.

_It's her!_ Alfred smiled, a sense of triumph and success filling his being. She sounded timid and confused over the wire, probably having been put off by his father picking up the phone.

_Just one more reason not to have him around!_

"In person," he said without thinking, realizing to late that they were speaking over a telephone. _Damn, now she's going to think I'm some kind of idiot…if she doesn't already._

"_I-it's Tori Laurinat__ė__, from before? I-I was calling t-to tell you that…I a-am accepting your offer..."_

He registered her stutter, stowing it away with the rest of what little he knew about the young, foreign woman. _Okay, she has trouble talking when she gets all balled up… "_No need to be nervous, Tori," he assured her. "Think you can start tomorrow?"

_The sooner, the better._

_"...yes." _That signal word of consent was probably one of the best Alfred had ever heard. _Yes! She said yes!_

"Great! So I'll see you tomorrow morning then. Goodbye!" he slammed the phone down on its cradle before Tori could bid farewell in return, for which he felt kind of bad, but his arm was currently in jeopardy of being broken off at the elbow.

"Jesus, pops! Get off 'a me!" The older man let his arm out of a death grip, frowning and panting over the exertion used during his futile struggle to regain control of the telephone.

"Alfred," he sighed angrily, straightening his clothes and rubbing his forehead. "Who could be so bloody damn important that you would rip the phone from my grasp to talk to them?"

Alfred straightened, ignoring the uncomfortable, slight throbbing sensation he was experiencing around his inner elbow. "That, pops," he turned to leave, walking with a spring in his step and satisfaction in his voice - for even in this dark hour, he had managed a small triumph against the oppressively degrading person who was his father.

"…was my new housekeeper."

He practically danced out of the study, checking the grandfather clock in the hallways as he did so - there were only three hours until he met the girl his father was making him marry. Alfred was filled with determination - he'd won a small skirmish in the battle for his future; now he just needed to focus on winning the war.

_Bring it on pops, Josephine...I'm ready for anything._

**(A/N)** …because believe it or not, I haven't abandoned this fic and left it for dead. Did you notice how many times Arthur said Alfred's name XP ? You get a cookie if you give me a number ;D So, you like the dramatic twist? XD I just did some re-hashing of the story line, switched up some character histories…the first "letter chapter" is coming up and I'm looking forward to it. Somehow I always imagined Feliks dropping his valley girl speech pattern somewhat when he's angry… (so I made fem!Feliks do it!)

I know Oedipus wasn't forced into marriage…but I find his story kind of interesting (despite being written a bazillion million years ago) and I'm reading all three of them in English class, so…haha! ^_^ (and besides, I figured Alfred would make a totally incorrect reference – he's not going to marry his mother because…well…she's dead D: ) For those of you who aren't equestrians, a "bit" is the metal part that you put in a horse's mouth.

Arthur didn't take a train from England to Virginia, btw. He took a ship – the first commercial international airline didn't exist during this time.

I want to apologize for how long it's been since I updated – apparently being in the eleventh grade means A LOT of homework (and I mean a lot) and being in a competitive marching band means a lot of practice. On top of that I've only been in my new house and new school for about a month, and things are just starting to settle down. Which is why I've been able to write this chapter :) Hmm…I was going to say something else but I've forgotten what it was…

And on an unrelated note, for those of you who may not know (so like, ALL of you) I have been taking French for FOUR YEARS. And anyway, I have to find an article written by a French newspaper every weekend that is about America (not as hard as you'd think), and then condense it into five sentences _en Français_. Well, I did just that, but what I did was I email myself the article so I could print it…and _le monde_ must've jacked my address or something, because now my inbox is being clogged with French spam. THANKS, FRANCIS. Lesson of the week? Don't give your address out on websites that doesn't speak your native language D:

Soooo review! Whether you went "I HATE THIS" or "meh" or "THIS IS F#CKING AMAZING"…I'd love to hear your feedback :D

And don't worry – it won't be so long before the next update, this time!

~ V.o.t.s.

P.S. Next chapter we get to meet Josephine…and Tiesa starts her new job! OOHHHHHH PLOT. I'VE FINALLY FOUND YOU!

(Long author's note FTW!)


	5. Chapter 5

**Lessons in Housekeeping –** Chapter Four

**DICLAIMER:** I do not own Hetalia…for if I did, my life would certainly be complete. And the universe is way to cruel to let that happen :P

They rolled up to the fancy downtown restaurant. His father was as pissed as he'd ever seen him. The eating establishment wasn't exactly what one would call close, and two poor saps had crashed head on with each other on the only road that should have taken them there in about an hour, so their progress en route to the destination had been remarkably slow.

"We would've been there already if you hadn't acted like a child," his father grouched at him as the two of them sat the backseat, the car slowly crawling along with the rest of the traffic over the cracked asphalt. "We could have easily avoided this whole mess, and actually _been on time_ for once in our lives." Alfred rolled his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the window, blocking out the mutterings of responsibility and time management that were being preached into his ear from the seat next to him.

_We "would have been there already" if _I_ was driving..._the young man hated being chauffeured everywhere - like you were too stupid to get yourself around town. Alfred knew how to drive; he'd taught himself when he was fifteen, using the open-top Cadillac that the headmaster of his prestigious boarding school had owned and treated like a child…_had_. Once Alfred got ahold of the luxurious vehicle, there wasn't really much left to love.

_Did I get expelled for that? I can't remember._ But something told him that crashing your headmaster's most prized possession into brick wall was a very valid reason for expulsion, so he just assumed he was.

But no, instead of letting Alfred drive the car his father absolutely _insisted_ that the two of them be carted around everywhere like children, saying it had something to do with "reputation" and "propriety".

Alfred tried to ignore it, but during the agonizingly slow (yet satisfying in a way, for his father was about ready to throw a fit) car ride his anxiety was building and dread began to weigh him down like a leaden ball in his gut. The sweet taste of success that had galvanized him earlier began to sour as the car drew ever closer to the restaurant. He had come to terms with the fact that there was no escaping this arranged fate - his father had him boxed into a corner, leaving him no escape.

_What does he even hope to teach me by marrying me off? I bet she's hideous...or bat-shit insane or SOMETHING like that...god, I just don't want this._

He trailed after his father and the Maître d' as they entered the dining room of uptown eating establishment. _Velvet…velvet everywhere..._the soft fabric made up almost everything - from the seat cushions, to the curtains that were draped ornamentally over the wide windows, which looked out onto the street that glowed with late night traffic.

_Someone needs to hide a new decorator..._but it didn't look bad, he ceded after a second glance_...or at least someone who doesn't have a velvet fetish._

The steady hum of other diners quietly enjoying their meals and soft jazz coming from a live band playing quietly in the center of the room filled his ears. Alfred felt almost numb; as if he was walking about in someone else's body - at least, he wished it were that way. If he was walking around as someone else, he wouldn't be him, and he wouldn't be here right now.

They followed the Maître d' throughout room, weaving between the tables and chairs and people alike. He just barley caught a cautionary hiss from his father, amidst the quiet clack of silverware on china and the low-whine of a stand-up bass.

"Alfred," his father said, turning his ever so slightly as to make eye contact with his son. "Don't you _dare_ ruin this."

_How could I? You told me exactly what would happen if I did._

Even still, the young man set his jaw defiantly, willing and ready for a verbal showdown of threats and comebacks right in the middle of everything; but it was then that his father moved aside...and he saw.

Alfred froze for a moment, caught completely off guard. There she sat, legs crossed, wrapped in a beaded dress with a rather immodest slit up the side of her leg, and half a cigarette held lazily in-between her fingers. Jewels sparked at her wrists, throat, and ears. Her short hair - so dark it was almost black and pressed into tight waves that were obviously not its natural lay - swished about her ears as she turned to look at him. As she smiled with carefully painted lips, she gave one, slow (and if he hadn't known better, purposefully seductive) blink.

_Somehow, this is not what I was expecting..._

She stood and gracefully outstretched a gloved hand. "Good evening, Alfred," her voice was smooth, soft and breathy; her words were marked with a pronounced southern twang. "I'm Josie Hughes."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Alfred had been expecting someone dowdy, someone fat or just plain ugly - not a dame as glamorous and just plain sexy as Josie. Yes, he found her attractive, he had to admit. He scrutinized her for a flaw the entire time they say across from each other, but couldn't find something that he had direct qualms with...

There was just something about her though, something...beneath the surface that he couldn't quite make out. When she spoke there was an underlying current of a calculating nature, of a false he-didn't-know-what...but it was enough the put him off, just slightly.

_It's almost time for dessert...I should step it up a bit._ He resumed his search for a major flaw, trying to not look to conspicuous, and engaged in the formal conversation at the same time.

"So, Alfred, your father tells me you went to Harvard," mentioned the General, a man older and much rounder than Alfred's own father. The man's huge and out-of-date mustache twitched every time he opened his mouth - overall, he was not a visually appealing fellow.

_Her mom must be one hell of a looker,_ Alfred thought half humorously, _to produce that _- he shot a quick glance at Josephine - _no, Josie. She likes to be called Josie_ - and back to the general_...from that_!

"Yeah, for about one semester," he answered Hughes' question. "Ol' Harvard never did much for me in the end I'm afraid...plus I was drunk off my ass most of the time and-"

"_Ahem_", his father coughed beside him. Alfred sighed, censoring and abridging the _real_ reason he'd left Harvard, shrugging his shoulders as he did so. "I didn't want to be a lawyer," he explained, and with that being said he shot a pointed glance at his father. "I don't think that was really the right career path for me...right, _pops_?"

He could feel Josie's gaze on him, and it was slightly unsettling. This woman was unlike any other he had met, but he wasn't sure if that was a good thing. While the type of girl Alfred usually sprung for and bagged was the vapid kind, Josie radiated and aura of self-confidence. She was intelligent, this one - he could see her cunning in her eyes, the way she smiled.

_And is a cunning woman really a good thing?_ It reminded him of his passed mother in a strange way, but while he had loved his mother for who and what she was…well, Josie was similar, but _different_ at the same time. Very much so – it was hard for him to put into words, even in his own head.

His father chose this moment to interrupt his train of thought. "All the better to marry you two..."

_I wonder why she's agreed to this. Surely she must have some type of suitor already..._because it really didn't make any sense _why_ she wasn't married yet – Josie was attractive, rich, and – as far as he could tell – a good conversationalist and very polite. So why was no one biting? Rhetorically speaking, of course.

His father continued, and Alfred actually listened for once – he was finally being provided with the exact reason why he was being forced to do this. "Alfred, you need to buckle down. This deal that I have arranged with the general will force the both of you to work and function as a team of adults...hopefully, you'll learn something from this experience."

_So that's why...for me, at least. But _she_ doesn't seem like a pain in the ass..._

"Quite frankly you're an embarrassment to the family at the moment," his father told him outright, getting revenge for Alfred's snide comment on his career choice a few moments earlier. "You'll actually gain some maturity within this union, I pray. Otherwise I don't know _what_ I'm going to do with you."

Alfred steamed quietly. He really didn't get his father's warped reasoning, sometimes…most of the time, actually. _As if getting hitched to some doll I barely even know will make me a more "mature adult." Why didn't you just do a better job or raising me, asshole?_

Then he felt something surprising - a foot nudged him, barely even able to be felt though his shoe. At first he thought he'd imagined it, until he felt it again; he looked across the table at Josie - the only one capable (and willing) of performing such an action - but she just batted her eyes innocently and smiled as if to say "What, me?"

_Is it a signal or something? _Woman had come onto him before, but never in such a subtle manner.

Suddenly she broke eye contact with him, and stood. Alfred noted that whoever had been nudging his foot (if it wasn't Josie…which it probably was) had stopped.

"Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I need to freshen up," Josie focused on Alfred, who wanted to shrivel under her tempting and feeling-arousing gaze. "But I'm afraid that I don't know where the restroom is," she paused, as if in thought. "Alfred, you've been here before, yes?"

He nodded numbly. If he said no, his father would not hesitate for an instant to out his lie. They were the ones who had suggested where the four of them eat, after all. His father had dragged him here on more than one occasion in the past.

"Do you think you could show me where it is?" She tilted her head ever-so-slightly, staring down seductively through her lashes. If Alfred's thoughts had been a car, then they would have careened off of the road. Slowly, he connected the dots, summing up all of what he knew and what had happened and what they all probably meant.

_She needs to talk about something...that's why she nudged me. I should agree…_

Both their parents butted in before he could formulate what he thought was an appropriate answer.

"It's just around the corner," said Alfred's father, pointing in the direction of the rather inconveniently placed women's restroom, at the exact same time as the general said "No - I don't think that's necessary."

Alfred looked at the two older men and then at Josie, making a split-second decision. "It's no problem," he assured all the occupants of the table, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet. He didn't catch the look of displeasure on the general's face. So, because he had no viable reason not to, he took the beautiful woman's hand and led her to the restroom.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Back at the table, the general sighed dejectedly.

"What is it, Rayland?" Arthur asked his friend, watching as the man who was older than even him stir the remains of an expensive meal around his plate. _Horrible manners..._but Arthur had the decency and intelligence not to reprimand another adult – the correcting of his former colleague would in itself be poor etiquette.

Hughes simply shrugged. "I was really hoping to keep them alone for a little while longer...but they _are_ getting married, so I guess it doesn't matter."

Arthur nodded like he understood, but in reality he was perplexed by the other man's statement. Then it occurred to him that, in a massive shortcoming of foresight and good-sense, he realized that he had neglected to ask Hughes exactly _why_ he had agreed to marry off his beautiful daughter to Arthur's own immature, delinquent son. "General Hughes" obviously knew something that "Ambassador Kirkland" didn't, and why wouldn't he? Josephine was _his _child, after all. Just as Alfred was his…

_What have I gotten us into? _Arthur could only hope that his imagination was running wildly off course, as a strange new feeling of uneasiness settled over him. For the first time in a long while, Arthur was hoping that he was wrong.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Alfred could feel her fingers wrapped around his arm, even through the fabric of his tuxedo jacket. Her touch was making him anxious, but for whatever reason he couldn't pinpoint. As he led her to the restroom, leaving his father behind him, he had the strangest perception that he was making some kind of choice – accepting a fate that he knew he'd regret in the end.

_But what the fuck can I do about it?_

They rounded a corner, audibly reducing the noise of the other diners by just the tiniest bit. The hallway was dim - not dim enough as to be impossible to see, but so that the atmosphere suddenly became more intimate. The two young adults were the only occupants of the lavishly decorated space.

"Well…," he pointed to the door marked _Ladies_ in gold paint. "There it is. If you want me to wait –"

Then, suddenly and without warning, soft hands had wrapped themselves around the back of his neck, bringing it down closer to lips that hungrily pressed against his own. Alfred was…startled. He stood frozen for a moment, as Josie pressed her body into his own. He was no stranger to a woman's touch, but this particular instance was exceptional. Josie's actions had been so forward and unexpected.

He pulled away, albeit sort of reluctantly, for it seemed that the southern belle was rather experienced when it came to entertainment of the physical sort. "Wha…why…what are we doing?" It more because of bewilderedness that he asked her this, not anger or any other negative emotion; the only indication he'd received that she even remotely liked him was her gracious manner and the earlier foot-nudge.

Josie raised her eyebrows, a sly smile shaping on her lips. She drew close to Alfred again, laying a teasing hand on his chest and playing with his clothes in a manner that could only be described as seductful. "Well, we are getting married, aren't we?"

"…Yes?"

Alfred worried for just a second that someone would come around the corner and see them. Then he realized he didn't really care. How could it be as bad as what had happened with Irene and Candy? But he failed to see exactly why Josie had just thrown herself upon him.

"But what I want to ask you…," he said, still a little dazed (and quite pleased) from the taste and feel of the tantalizing young woman. "…is _why_. Why did you agree to marry me?"

Her eyes flashed, and Alfred once again caught a glimpse of that fierce, calculating intelligence. She ran a hand through his gelled and styled hair, slightly mussing the straw-colored strands. The sly smile morphed into something that was relatively similar, but a tad more grim.

"You're not the only one with bad habits," she sighed, rolling her eyes as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "My dear old daddy has decided that the way I've been living my life and who I've been spending my time with are not appropriate for a southern gentle-lady."

She looked up into his eyes, all seriousness. "So you could say, Alfred, that I'm just as stuck as you are in this situation." Alfred felt a spark of understanding – Josie was just like him; forced into a situation that she was impossible of escaping. Virtually being held prisoner with the notion of being cut off – a frightening idea for a society girl like herself, he supposed.

"I see…," he replied, turning on the "old charm" once again. It made sense now – the strange feeling he picked up from the young woman, her mannerisms and practically split-personality…_or, at least, I think it does…_but instead of examining this further he pushed it out of his mind, just as he usually did to things that confused him. "At least I'm not that bad looking, right?"

"Yes, it's good to know that I won't be spending the years with some hideous barbarian," Josie flirted right back, her charismatic skills rivaling his own – possibly even a tad bit better. She pressed against him once again, and Alfred couldn't help but become aroused.

_This doll knows how to play with a guy…_he supposed that should make him wary, but Alfred was never really one to throw caution to the wind.

"Luckily for me, I happen to find you extremely attractive," Josie whispered in his ear. Alfred tightened his own grip on the backs of her upper thighs, lifting her off of the floor slightly.

"Luckily for you," he said back, breathing growing ragged. "I feel the same." This was going fast, almost dangerously so. But Alfred knew deep inside of him that he couldn't stop – too much hung in the balance for him to break it off. His entire _future_ depended on his marriage to Josephine, and if that union could have just even the slightest amount of mutual happiness, the entire ordeal would be more bearable…or, so he hoped.

So he just gave himself over, letting Josie's hands roam wherever they wanted to go. He was beginning to resent this fate less and less…

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

_**November 7**__**th**__**, Kirkland Estate**_

Tiesa walked confidently up the cobblestone drive for the second time that week. In her hand was a small suitcase filled to its maximum capacity with clothes and almost everything else she owned. A small bag slung over her shoulder held the rest. She had emptied the last of the savings in her account in order to pay a cabbie to take her out to the estate.

She felt not one trace of anxiety, not one trace of apprehension. For once in her life, Tiesa Laurinatė was one-hundred percent assured that what she was doing was the right thing. Finally, after days of deliberation, she was literally standing on the threshold of her future.

_Here goes nothing_. Tiesa grabbed ahold of the knocker and rapped it against the front door five times in quick succession. Then she waited. And waited…and waited. Curious, the young women tried to peer through a first-level window from where she was standing; she didn't want to draw any closer for fear it would like she was snooping. _Maybe…maybe he's not home?_

The littlest bit of doubt began to gnaw at her certainty, but she quickly squashed it. She couldn't lose her courage, not now. So she waited some more, to the point where it was getting ridiculous. Tiesa was about to go around back and see if there was another way into the house when the front door finally opened.

"Tori!" Mr. Jones beamed at her from the open doorway, arms held wide in a welcoming gesture. Tiesa smiled back, but not as widely. The young man was in a state of half dress; pants on, shirt almost buttoned but un-tucked, and no socks or shoes to speak of. Both a belt and a fashionable sweater were held in his hands, and his hair was neither washed nor styled. She averted her gaze, embarrassed to have seen her employer in such a state.

"Good morning, Mr. Jones," she said kindly, but quietly. "Do…do you think you could…?"

He looked down at himself, as if noticing the way he was dressed for the first time. "Oh yeah," he laughed good-naturedly. "Come on in, make yourself at home." Tiesa gladly stepped into the manor that was now both her responsibility and her shelter, grateful to escape the frigid wind outside as the door was shut.

"Sorry about…," her employer began as he trotted towards the stairs. "…well, _this_." He gestured to himself and his disjointed ensemble of an outfit. "I'll go upstairs and fix it. You just caught me at a bad time, 's all."

_Oh dear…_a bad time? She was messing up already? "I apologize, Mr. Jones –"

He cut her off with the wave of a hand. "Don't worry about it. Why don't you go unpack? I've already had breakfast, so you can pretty much sit back and get used to the old place."

Relieved that he was not upset, Tiesa nodded. But the young man had been too busy climbing the steps to notice. _I wonder what I interrupted him in doing? _She thought on the way to the maid's quarters, in the kitchen; she was pretty sure she knew the way. It had only been about five days since her last visit, after all.

Tiesa got the answer to her question the moment she entered the kitchen; for there, sitting at the little informal breakfast table in the corner, was an absolutely stunning young woman around her employer's age. Tiesa registered the fact that this woman was not only beautiful, but she was also wearing what to be Mr. Jones's bathrobe, and was here way too early for it to be a purely social visit. A strange feeling came over her then, and it felt something akin to dread.

"Who are you?" she blurted without thinking, immediately reddening at the absurdity of her question. _She wouldn't be here if Mr. Jones didn't want her to be…remember your place, Tiesa!_

The woman gave her a tight-lipped smile, one that did not look very pleasant or friendly. "I believe a more appropriate question would be 'who are _you_?'" her voice held a false note of curtsey, very sarcastic and hostile in nature if one looked into her eyes as she spoke. It reminded Tiesa vaguely of someone else she knew.

"I-I…I am the new housekeeper…," Tiesa mumbled, pushing that last though forcibly from her mind. _I can't afford to think about that now._ "Mr. Jones hired me. M-my name is Tori...Tori Laurinatė."

Still, even once Tiesa had explained who she was and why she was there, that unfriendly and unnerving smile that looked more like grimace was still on the other woman's face. "Well, _I _am Josephine Hughes," she said. "Daughter of General Rayland Hughes and Alfred's fiancée."

"Oh…"

_Now what!_ Tiesa shifted uncomfortably, unsure if what to say as Josephine stared her down like she was a lion and Tiesa herself was a zebra. The woman was being so out rightly hostile, Tiesa had no idea what to do. _And she said she's his fiancée…_

She realized exactly what that statement meant. A heavy feeling settled over her entire body, as if gravity had just increased. The tension in the room was broken by the arrival of Mr. Jones, thankfully.

_Thank God!_ Tiesa didn't think she'd be able to stand one more moment with that woman – for fear of her own safety.

"Good, you've met!" Mr. Jones smiled, fully clothed this time. "Josie, this is Tori – Tori, this is Josie, my fiancée."

"Yes, we have already made each other's acquaintance," Josephine said, much more honey-sweet than everything she had said to Tiesa put together. The young woman was taken aback. Just moments ago, this woman – whom Tiesa was willing to bet was southern, based solely on her accent alone – had looked ready to start a full out war, and now she was looking at Tiesa like she was some kind of God-send. "Isn't that right, Tori?"

"Y-yes…," Tiesa smiled weakly. "Um, Mr. Jones, I'm sorry, but I think I should go and unpack my things…" _Just as long as it gets me away from that woman._

Her employer nodded. "Sure thing," he turned to leave the kitchen, Josephine right behind him. But just before she disappeared through the doorway, she turned and gave Tiesa the most withering look she had ever received. Tiesa was absolutely speechless.

_What did I do?_ Had she offended the other woman, in some obscure way? She had no way of knowing unless she was to confront Josephine, and that really wasn't something she wanted to do at the moment. Dazed , Tiesa entered the little room that branched off from the kitchen. It looked exactly as it had when Mr. Jones had shown her around.

She unpacked, placing her clothes in the dresser and putting a few books on the nightstand by the bed. Once finished, she sat down on the (what felt like a) relatively new mattress. It was the most comfortable thing she'd been on in a long while, but Tiesa couldn't get herself to enjoy it. She was feeling sick, and not _sick _sick, either. She felt an odd mix of sadness and what seemed to be…_jealousy_ turning about inside of her mind and her heart. But for whatever reason these feelings were plaguing her, Tiesa refused to acknowledge it.

_I'm being silly. I came here to work, not for…a relationship. I just need to get them out of my mind and focus on the task at hand._ And so, yet again, the young woman lied to herself. Because sometimes the truth hurt too much for what it was worth.

**(A/N)** …what, you thought now that'd he'd met Tiesa he'd change immediately from playboy to gentleman? Haha, no he's still a bit misguided, but let's see if we can change that :3 (Duh, of course it will!) Oh, and tell me your impression of Josie…was she an okay original character? I don't want her to be one of those shallow, poorly written ones – her purpose is to add to the story, not detract from it, so just tell me if she or any of my other little additions suck in anyway. SO TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK OF HER. Do you trust her? :O Do you think Alfred should?

Did you know that the highway system wasn't invented until the 30's? It was devised by president Eisenhower in order to provide easy access for the army to different areas around the country as well as to give citizens an easy escape route should something occur (but there's one thing he didn't account for – TRAFFIC JAMS!) But anyway, that's why Alfred and Arthur didn't take the highway to the restraint…you know, because it didn't exist :p

A "Maître d'" is what the head waiter or waitress is called in an upscale restaurant :) And for those of you linguistics whizzes out there, yes, it is a French term. Somehow it just kind of wandered on over here to America.

I'm practically vibrating with anticipation. I GET TO PUT IVAN IN HERE SOON! …not next chapter, you know, but eventually XD Next chapter will be a letter/memory chapter…you'll see what all that is soon :D

ALSO: Bridesmaids is my new favorite movie :3 (totally off topic, but whatever!)

~ V.o.t.s.


	6. Letters and Memories: One

**Lessons in Housekeeping –** Letters and Memories: One

**DISLCLAIMER: **I Do NoT oWn HeTaLiA…no sir-ee :P

**(A/N) **Okay, here's how chapters like these are going to work – a letter or memory chapter is one where I write out either a correspondence between two characters, or a memory from their past. If you need to know when one is taking place/being written, I'll tell you :) but you can pretty much infer for the most part. This applies mostly to the letters – I'm not going to have specific dates on them, so you guys can just assume that time has passed between the sending and receiving of correspondence. There! Now that _that's_ outta the way, on with the story!

**Letter from Tiesa Laurinatė to her Mother**

_Brangiausia Mama,_

_ I am pleased to write to you with good news! I have found myself another job since the last time I wrote you, and this one pays very well when compared to its predecessors._ _I have taken a position as a housekeeper in the home of a wealthy family. My employer provides me with a place to stay and food to eat, and most importantly, money to send to you. My employer is very kind; you need not to worry about me. He has proved to be very gracious to his underlings, whether they be male or female, American or foreign._

_ Felicja is doing well, also. We are not working in the same vicinity, but she is very happy with her choice. I'm living in Virdžinija – that's one of Amerikos many states. It feels like I've seen so much of this country since I came here, but I've never even left New England! I think I want to go out to see the western half of the United States someday; I have heard some interesting things about __Kalifornija__ (another state – there's forty-eight of them, isn't that amazing?)._

_ How is the rest of the family? I hope Papa got that job – I've been said a couple of prayers for him. That's one bad thing about being all way over here; you would not believe how hard it is to find a Romos Katalikų church here, particularly around the area I'm in. And once again on the topic of family – Eduard and Raivis are faring well, yes? Be sure to tell Eduard to keep doing well in school, and Raivis that I'm wishing him an early happy sixteenth birthday._

_ In this envelope I am enclosing the money for you and Papa, as well as some extra for Raivis's birthday – my employer has been most generous, and gave me my paycheck in advance. I have also written my new address on a slip of paper, as to spare you the inconvenience of copying it from the corner of the envelope. I've even put in a postcard I picked up while Felicja and I were in Philadelphia (that's a city in Pensilvanijos) and I've only just remembered that I had it. I'm sure Eduard will be pleased to add it to his collection! I'll pick up another one as soon as I can, perhaps this time from the capital - I hear that the nearby town is only a seven hours' drive from it._

_ I will write again soon, especially now that I can afford the cost of mailing a letter overseas. Tell Papa, Eduard, Raivis, and the others that I love and miss them very much. I shall eagerly await your reply with updates and news from home. Every one of you have been the first thing I think of in the morning, and the last thing I think of before I fall asleep for the past couple of years. I can only wait eagerly for the day when I will be able to hug and talk with you, Mama, as I once did. Best wishes and much love from Amerika!_

_Jūsų mylintis dukra,_

_ Tiesa_

**Letter to Tiesa Laurinatė from her Mother**

___Numylėtinis Tiesa,_

_ How wonderful it is to read your words! I was beginning to worry – you had not written me in a while, and I was beginning to think that something had happened. But your most recent letter has assuaged my fears, and I thank God every day that you are still safe. I am very happy that you are enjoying your new job – at least you have some previous experience! But course (and I write this in all honesty) _anyone_ would be willing to employ you, my darling daughter. It is also reassuring to hear that your friend Felicja is doing well. I know I have written this before, but I hope to meet that girl someday. She sounds like a very unique and interesting young lady._

_ Things have been going more smoothly here, as of late. Your Papa got that job as a bricklayer, but unfortunately he does not find much pleasure in it. I keep telling him to quit and find a new line of work, but you know your Papa. Once he starts something, that man has to see it through to the end! Eduard is doing extremely well in school – he's at the top of his class! But we have not the money to send him to university, so he's started saving up himself. Bless that boy – he's always working so hard. Raivis appreciated your birthday wishes, as well as the gift we bought him with the extra money you sent (two good notebooks and a set of nice pencils; he's already started writing in them). I must thank you dearly for that, Tiesa, for we would not have been able to get him something otherwise. And as for the postcard, the boys have already pinned it up next to others in their room; they take much joy from it – a little _too_ much if you ask me!_

_ Your Didžioji-Senelė passed in her sleep last month, but she was very old and it was her time. Then right after that – wouldn't you know it – Teta Alonda gave birth to another little mouth to feed! The baby is quite precious, but they're having a difficult time deciding on his name (three weeks seems like a long time to go without a name, but I think they're about to settle on Juozas). But other than that, nothing really has been happening. I don't really care to follow the politicians and what they're saying (that Aleksandras Stulginskis really rubs your father the wrong way, for some reason). _

_ I am very pleased that things are going so well for you, dear. Your employer sounds like a very respectable gentleman. Have you met anyone over there, in Amerika? Any handsome boys, in particular? I really miss our chats; your Teta Elzė is no fun at all to talk to, and my good friend Elena had to move three towns over with her husband to find work. I am sending this letter with all the love I can muster, along with your Papa's and your brothers' too. Take care of yourself, Tiesa. You are always in my thoughts._

_ Daug meilės,_

_ Savo Mama_

**(A/N) **And thus ends the first letter/memories chapter! :) Whad'ja think? Yeah, Tiesa lied about Felicja (she doesn't want her mom to worry). I tried to make this as realistic and intimate as possible :D

In 1924, there were only 48 states, instead of the 50 we have today. And Aleksandras Stulginskis was the president of Lithuania at the time this is set :P SO, YEAH! C:

I decided to make Raivis into writing because it says on his profile that he likes to read romance books, so I thought it fitting he'd like to write them, too! His birthday's in November, and that's when the fic picked up, sooo…you know XD And Eduard's all genius-ish because he's…Eduard.

~ V.o.t.s.

**DICTIONARY:**

**(I think these are right, but if they're not feel free to correct me)**

**Brangiausia – **dearest

**Virdžinija – **Virginia (I think it's cool that the states have other names in other countries!)

**Amerikos –** America's

**Romos Katalikų – **Roman Catholic (most predominate religion in Lithuania, I checked :P )

**Pensilvanijos – **Pennsylvania

**Kalifornija – **California

**Jūsų mylintis dukra – **Your loving daughter

**Amerika – **America

**Numylėtinis – **Darling

**Didžioji-Senelė – **Great-Grandmother

**Teta – **Aunt

**Savo – **Your

**Daug meilės – **Lots of love


	7. Chapter 6

**Lessons in Housekeeping –** Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER:** Hetalia is my property. _WHOOPS! _I meant to say **"isn't." **

_**November 14**__**th**__**, Kirkland Virginia Estate**_

_This place is very quiet, when you're all alone…_Tiesa mused while taking a rare moment to relax in the kitchen, supervising the meal that was currently in the oven. She had pulled a chair up to the wooden table in the middle of the room that served as a preparation table. Then, propping her elbows on its surface, she'd taken out a book and lost herself in the words of a literary master; a story borrowed from Mr. Jones's extensive library. It was nice, getting to read again. She had barely had the chance to these past couple of months. Tiesa would glance up from her current page every now and then, checking to make sure the oven wasn't exploding or anything else random or bizarre.

It really _was_ quiet. There was no music in the background, no one talking in some distant corner of the house; just the quiet hum of the state-of-the-art refrigerator in the corner, and the whistle of the wind from outside beating on the window panes. She was the only person currently present, and thankfully so. Tiesa hadn't really cared for the recent guests, and she got the distinct impression that the feeling had been mutual.

She'd met Mr. Kirkland the same morning she'd been unexpectedly introduced to Miss Josephine.

"Dad, this is Tori. I hired her to replace Irene," there had been victory and even a bit of ? in Mr. Jones's voice as he spoke to his father, a proper looking older gentleman with hair a little darker than his son's – but Tiesa could definitely see the family resemblance. _But those eyebrows…_well, _most_ of the family resemblance.

She had inclined her head slightly, hands folded in front of her; a gesture of respect. "It is nice to finally meet you, Mr. Jones."

She heard Miss Josephine giggle from her observatory position on the couch. _What? What did I do? I didn't say anything funny…_Tiesa looked up, and saw that the older gentleman had reddened and her employer was stifling laughter.

"That is _not_ funny, Alfred," he snapped. Then he looked right at Tiesa, who was still confused as to everyone's varied reactions. "Did I do something wrong…?" she finally inquired tentatively.

"Miss…what was your name again?"

"Tori."

"Miss Troy, my name is not Jones and neither is _his_," he pointed angrily at his son. _Well, my name isn't "Troy,"_ she couldn't help think. Then, _wait, what?_

"My correct surname is Kirkland," he said to her. "…and I ask that you address me as such," then Mr. Kirkland stormed off and enclosed himself into the study for the remaining two days of his visit. Every time Tiesa went in to see if he needed anything, or bring him tea or something to eat, he was very terse. He never met her in the eye and he never said anything other than what he wanted, and it seemed that "please" or "thank you" were not in his vocabulary. Not that Tiesa expected him to roll out the red carpet or anything – she was just the help, after all…_but a little appreciation would be nice_

But even Mr. Kirkland was better than Miss Josephine_._ The woman treated her like she was slow, a Fob that couldn't speak or understand a single word of English. She had never quite gone back to being as nasty as she had been that first morning, but Tiesa knew for certain that Miss Josephine would be able to whip that demeaning attitude out like a weapon whenever she wanted to. That had already been made very clear by the southern beauty, and Tiesa had no doubt of her two-faced nature so she was very wary of this apparently new-found civility.

"Tori…," Miss Josephine would say, lounging in the bedroom or in the living room acting like a goddess. "I…would…like…some…thing…to…drink. Drink? You…understand?" Each word was drawn out dramatically, accompanied by hand-gestures and pantomiming. "Yes, Miss Josephine," Tiesa responded, in perfect English and as graciously as she could possibly manage, given the sickening frustration she was feeling. "I'll get you something right away."

The other woman was very particular. If her coffee cup was "dirty", her bath water "not hot enough", or her clothes not ironed the "proper way" she would not hesitate to absolutely refuse to accept it and demand that Tiesa try again. Miss Josephine knew that Tiesa was capable, that she could understand _and _speak English. It was all an act, just to be antagonizing. For whenever Mr. Jones was around, Miss Josephine would adopt that sickeningly sweet demeanor. It was only then that she spoke to Tiesa in a normal way, treated her with dignity and took whatever she was given (whether it be food, drink, or something else) without a single complaint and a smile.

_Thank God she left yesterday,_ Tiesa flipped another page, already a good way into her novel. _I don't think I would have been able to handle her for another week._

The previous morning Mr. Jones had driven Miss Josephine to the train station. The she was going back to her father's plantation, all the way down in South Carolina. She wouldn't back for Thanksgiving – _thankfully _– but "would be sure to be back before the Christmas season."

In addition to catering to the ever-so-needy Miss Josephine and not-as-much Mr. Kirkland for the majority of her first week on the job, Tiesa had been doing a top-to-bottom house clean of epic proportions. Apparently the previous housekeeper – _Irene, I think she was called _– hadn't been particularly attentive to her duties in the dustier, harder to reach corners, the attic, the basement, and the rooms that weren't used very often. It had been difficult, nasty work but Tiesa knew that it would be nowhere near as bad next time.

The back door opened, and a cold gust of air blew against the back of her neck. Tiesa shivered, turning just in time to see Mr. Jones come it and stamp a very fine coating of snow off his shoes. "Hey, Tori," he smiled, shrugging of his coat and giving her a genuine smile – one very distinguished from the false, thin ones she'd been receiving from Miss Josephine. Tiesa smiled back, less timidly than she did the first few times she'd encountered the young man. She was growing comfortable here.

"Hello, Mr. Jones," she greeted. "It's snowing already?" she had noted the melting particles of ice now in scattered in his hair, on his eyelashes, and on the rug in front of the door.

"Yeah, kind 'a early this year, but I don't really mind it," he pulled up a chair beside her, sitting down with a grateful sigh.

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked, figuring he could use something to get warm.

"That'd be great, thanks." That was another thing that was different between Mr. Jones and his fiancée. He never asked for anything directly – he wasn't very demanding, and let her do her job without orders. He trusted her to give him what he needed, and that was something Tiesa found very surprising. But she appreciated it none the less.

She set down her book, got up, and carefully poured some coffee into a cup. She added the right amounts of cream and sugar, having already familiarized herself with the way the young man preferred his beloved drink. Then she made some for herself, adding just a touch of cream and no sugar – Tiesa liked her coffee dark and strong. It was still warm on account of her having made it just about a half an hour earlier, anticipating Mr. Jones's arrival from the cold outdoors. He'd gone out to meet some friends for lunch earlier.

"Thanks," he said again as she set the cup of warm liquid. He took a sip and shivered as she sat, picking up her book and flipping to where she left off.

"Whatch'a reading?"

"_A Tale of Two Cities_," she responded patiently, having no qualms about reading in his presence. The atmosphere was very relaxed, peaceful. She felt more at home and safe than she had since New York.

"In English?"

She pointed to the title, written in her employer's native language. "Are you surprised?" She felt a brief flash of irritation, thinking for a moment he was doubting her fluency – _like Miss Josephine…_But it quickly passed when she realized he did not mean the inquiry in a negative way. He merely wanted to know, not try to make her feel bad or uneducated. _He wouldn't do that. I'm being stupid._

"Nah," he responded, shrugging and taking another sip of coffee. "I just thought it be kind of cool to see a book written in another language."

"Oh," _now _that _would be a miracle._ A Tale of Two Cities – written in Lithuanian and bought in the local bookstore. The very thought made her want to laugh; an impossible find, in this part of the country at the very least! It was a good thing she knew how to read English, otherwise she wouldn't be doing anything other than sitting right now. "Do you read, Mr. Jones?"

The young man shook his head. "Nope – books never really appealed to me."

"You should try it sometime," she said, shocking herself with her own quick wit. "You might just end up broadening your horizons. You could pass for an intellectual!"

That elicited a short, bark-like laugh from him. He leaned back, grinning bemusedly. "Yeah, pops would be real proud then, wouldn't he?"

One of the things Tiesa had noticed this past week was the obvious tension between Mr. Jones and his father. Their relationship was an absolute mess; it was almost unreal. She had never seen a family so dysfunctional, and she couldn't help but wonder what had ignited the flames of animosity between them. _It's just them two…they should depend on each other more! A father and son should not be so estranged._

But, having an excellent relationship with both her parents herself, Tiesa decided it wasn't her place to be judgmental. _It's not my place to know, either. If Mr. Jones ever wants me informed of their issues, he'll tell me about them himself._

She could _feel_ how different this job was from the one in New York. Almost nothing was the same. This place, this estate, felt the most like a home since she'd been in Lithuania. It just felt more and more so as she began to get more and more used to her employer and her surroundings; her new life. Tiesa was still a little put off by Mr. Jones's brash nature at times, but she was definitely adjusting to his personality. She was safe here, genuinely. No one was going to hurt her, and she was in no danger of being kicked out onto the street.

But the same could not be said for Felicja. There had still been no word from her friend, even though she'd left her new number and address with the keeper of the inn the two them had stayed at. Tiesa had no idea where Felicja was, if she had somewhere to sleep at night, whether she had enough to eat, or if her new boss was treating her right. It bothered her to no end, and she couldn't help but feel guilty that it had been her own determination that had led to her friend's absence from her life. Tiesa had even looked around for the Pole again on a grocery trip, but to no avail. She took a too-big-gulp of coffee in an attempt to hid her anxiety.

Mr. Jones slid his chair across the floor with a quiet _screeeech_. He stretched his arms behind his head. "I'm beat…think I'll go take a nap." He stood and shuffled to the doorway that led to the living room.

"Alright…dinner will be ready in an hour," she informed him. She received a faint "Gottcha" in reply as he walked away. Tiesa watched her employer discreetly, admiring his broad shoulders and the back of his head like a love-struck school girl. Then she realized what she was doing with horror and chastised herself. _Dammit! I know what I came here for, and it wasn't him!_ She quickly muffled her feelings, pushing them to that dark corner of her mind that was hiding so many things already.

Well, one thing was for sure – she definitely wouldn't be able to occupy herself with the plight of Sydney Carton for the remainder of the evening. But Tiesa was positive that she knew how he felt when he looked at Lucy and saw her on the arm of Charles Darnay.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

_**November 16**__**th**__**, Arthur Kirkland's England Estate**_

Arthur was positively elated to be back home. This was his house that his son was _not_ residing in, and therefore the friendliest environment to both his sanity and his health. He'd actually been held up in Washington D.C. for a few days before catching a ship back to England. He stayed in a hotel, though – he wanted to spend as little time around Alfred as possible. He really, truly despised going to Virginia.

He'd discovered why Rayland Hughes was so eager to marry off his daughter. _The girl is God damn prostitute! _Well, not literally. But she definitely had the morals of one, and his son as well. The two little disgraces had made love _the very first night they met_! Absolutely and most definitely not dignified or proper behavior; at least he knew they wouldn't be bored with one another. They were a perfect match, and Arthur's previously uneasy feelings had been soothed. _I'm Arthur Kirkland_, he assured himself on the way back to England. _I don't make mistakes._

_But you were just like that, too_, said a tiny voice inside him…_before you met Francine_

_No, I wasn't! _He tried to counter, but he knew it was true. He had more similarities to Alfred in his youth than differences. Arthur hoped that Josephine and his son would be like him and his late wife, but at the same time, not. The first six years of his marriage had been amazing, but then…well, it was difficult for him to overcome such a tragedy. Looking back on it, Arthur knew that he had handled his grief badly. He had refused to forgive himself, he had refused to forgive his wife, and he had refused to forgive his son.

_I dealt with everything so badly…_he'd been the first one to ignore their bonds of faithfulness and marriage - that had only been his _first_ mistake. Then, Francine's hurt and inevitable betrayal…there were many, many things the older gentleman regretted in his life. _Francine, Matthew….and Alfred…_

He shook his head, clearing it of thoughts of the past and what could have been if he was faster, truer…_stronger._ But he didn't have time to reflect in events more than a decade passed – it was better to focus on the future, like his son's impending marriage. _That's going to a bitch to plan._

He needed to invite all of his government contacts, all his old friends from the law firm, and – he shuddered to think – family. What few of them remained, at least. Francine's side had broken off relations completely after her death, and Arthur himself had nothing but a few distant aunts and uncles. Family get-togethers happened rarely, if ever. And when they did it was always awkward. _The last time they saw Alfred, I think he was four…_ But none of that mattered. What was really important was that Alfred and Josephine learned their lesson (albeit, an utterly life-changing one, but a lesson nonetheless).

He shuffled some loose papers on his desk, organizing them by date. His thoughts strayed to Troy, or Tammy, or whatever the Hell her name was. His lip curled, the papers crinkling in his grip. His son had obviously hired her for one reason and one reason only – …_to fuck her._ What was he supposed to expect? He'd made a lapse in judgment and let Alfred hire his own housekeeper. It was only logical that the hooligan would go and pick up a whore from the nearest street corner. Arthur was not blind – this young woman was no Irene. She was pretty, even if she could have done with some dressing up. She could easily rival Josephine.

_Unfortunately, I can't fire her. Alfred hired her, and well…he's an adult. What can I do about it?_

This little domestic –_ and she's not even American, no less! _– could throw a wrench in his and the General's otherwise perfect plan. He had to find a way to fix this, and soon. His contemplative state was briefly interrupted by the soft pitter-patter of feet on wood. _Just ignore it, Arthur..._he quickly got out a pen and an official looking form, then pretending to be writing important words on its papery-white surface. In reality, he was writing nonsense. But it was just in time, because –

"You're back?" the voice from the doorway said, more of statement than a true question.

"Yes," he replied tersely, scribbling "words" more quickly, not looking up.

"I didn't know you were coming home today."

"That's because I didn't tell you," he countered, harshly, bluntly. But still, the unwanted presence was persistent. _Just go away._

"Can you help me with my homework?"

"No. I'm busy. Go ask the maid, Elsa, in the kitchen. She'd be happy to assist you, I'm sure."

"Daddy," it said. Arthur cringed; wishing that note of desperation hadn't slipped into the voice. It was reminding him of someone he had used to know, and missed constantly. "Please, Daddy?"

Arthur took a breath, sighed exasperatedly, and looked up from his "work." A boy, small for his age, was standing in the doorway to his study, dressed in a school uniform and clutching a leather satchel to his chest. His blue eyes were wide with hope, entire body shaking with anticipation for his father's answer. His sand colored hair fell in his eyes messily – just like his brothers' did, when they were younger…

"…please?" his little voice trembled.

Arthur locked eyes with his son, gaze made of steel. "Peter, I said _NO_."

Before him was the single reason he ever regretted coming back to England - Peter Kirkland...another one of his _mistakes_.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

_**November 19**__**th**__**, a hotel in New York City**_

Demyan Demidov was a patient guy. But this was beginning to get ridiculous. _Damn woman was supposed to be here a DAY AND A HALF AGO. _He was sitting at the desk in the moderately priced hotel room. In the words of his friend, Alexei, "It wasn't no Ritz Carlton, but it weren't no dive neither." He was sitting at the bulk-buy desk, not too comfortable in the chair that seemed tailored to suit someone the size of fuckin' doll.

Demyan was a big guy; always had been. That's the one and only reason he'd gotten through his childhood without one single kid making fun of his odd-sounding name or the fact that he was the slowest learner in the class. And he wasn't _fat_ big either; he was tall and broad - all muscle. And this ample amount of size and lack of book smarts was also why he made such a good _krysha_ for the Family that held his loyalty.

_Beatin' people up and payin' my respects,_ he tapped his fingers on the desk in a manner that was _almost_ impatient – almost, not quite…_that's kind a' become my thing nowadays._ Not that he was entirely comfortable with it - to be honest, despite his size and intimidating appearance, he was very frightened of the members in the Family that held power over him. There were some fucked up people he worked with, and sometimes just even bein' near 'em scared the mother-loving shit outta him.

But he was a short leave right now, having gotten permission from the _Pakhan's _nephew himself. _Now _there's_ a guy that needs some professional help…_but things had been goin' kind a' slow in upstate New York, as of late. Everyone was coming up with their payments; rival Families were lying low…there was nothing for Demyan to do. And that was why he was sitting here in a mediocre excuse for a hotel, waiting for a girlfriend he wasn't even sure was going to show. _That'd be just like her too…teasin' me and then leavin' me stone cold with nothing but a pair of blue balls for company._

He had no buddies in this part of the state – plenty of people that would want to rip his guts out and hang them over their front door, maybe, but no one he could call friendly. But he knew better than to take his girl to the Family headquarters. _God, that'd be an awful mistake._ It wasn't that he didn't want her knowing what he did for a living – Demyan had accepted his career as necessary for his survival in the Big Bad World. And besides, she knew anyway. What he was worried about was what the _other_ members of the Family would do if he brought her anywhere near them. They didn't have as much respect for the opposite sex where he earned his dough.

The fact he was friendless at the moment just contributed to the reason why he wasn't out drinking. But it seemed he wouldn't need to mourn his pitiable situation any longer, because the doorknob jiggled. Slowly, Demyan turned, sliding a hand beneath his large suit jacket and withdrawing a mean-looking pistol. He couldn't help it; spend a few years in the _bratva_ and you got paranoid as all Hell. _Damn, I hope it's who I think it is…_

It was. The door swung open, and there she was. He relaxed his hold on the pistol, lying on the desk. She raised her thin eyebrows, placing a hand sassily on her hip. He grinned embarrassedly, cursing his over-wary nature._ Hell, she's not happy..._

"Is that a gun in your _hand_, or are you just happy to see me?" she snipped, walking into the room and throwing her suitcase onto the king-sized bed with ease.

"Josie, honey," Demyan stood, arms outstretched in a gesture of apology. "I'm sorry – you know I get a little tense in the city…"

Josie whirled around, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him more passionately than he could remember in a long while. He gladly leaned into her, soaking up her affection that was so tediously truly earned. When they broke apart, the first thing he said was "Dammit…I missed you."

She smiled - apparently her anger at opening the door to his gun had already dissipated. "That's what you're supposed to be doing, baby." _Damn she's fickle sometimes…_he let her lead him to the bed, where they sat down on the edge and just re-familiarized each other with the curves and intimate places of their bodies for a while. That's one of the things that had made Demyan fall hard for the dame – not too much talking, but lots of action to fill the silence.

"Well, now that we're done foolin' around," he said after forty-five minutes, breathing hard and his clothes askew. He could feel Josie's makeup smeared all over his face. "Would you mind tellin' me what the Hell took you so long to come up here?"

"Snow, baby," she answered, sitting back at the desk and reapplying her lipstick while looking in a small compact mirror. "They had to attach a plow to the front of the train somewhere in Delaware…and then I got held up in Albany for a little bit."

He made a small noise of displeasure. _Gettin' held up = SPENDING MONEY._ "How much did'ja blow?" he asked, dreading the answer. Josie just couldn't get it through her head that he didn't have much money, and neither did she. You'd think that being a member of a Family would mean big payouts, but unfortunately the upper levels of this particular organization held onto their cash like it was their damn offspring.

"Excuse me? I don't really appreciate that tone of yours, Demyan."

"God dammit, Josie, don't give me any bullshit," he sat up. "How much money did you spend?"

She took her time blotting extra lipstick from her mouth with a tissue before answering, moving onto fixing her hair. "Oh, just about two…"

"Two?"

"…hundred."

"Damn, woman! I'm not made of money, and _you're_ not, either!"

"I used to be!" she protested haughtily.

"Well, not since your daddy blew it all on alcohol and whores!"

Josie's lips pressed into a thin little line, and Demyan knew he had crossed a boundary. His heart sank as she turned away, not sending a single glance in his direction or saying a single word. He'd touched a nerve - that was for sure. _Great, NOW she decides to be all sensitive…_Josie's father had squandered her inheritance on his own personal vices. Now his girl had nothing to her name but just that – her name. And the old bastard wouldn't let the two of them get married, either. _Guess the fucker thinks his daughter's too good for some Russian-American slime-ball like me._ It wasn't his fault; Josie had come to _him_, at a party hosted by a "business associate." He'd been hooked on her ever since, as she was to him.

"Honey, I'm sorry," he apologized, walking up behind her and enveloping her voluptuous frame in his huge arms. "I shouldn't a' said that…"

"I hate this," she said. "I hate being poor."

"How is that going, by the way?" he asked, gently rocking his body and hers from side-to-side. "That guy your dad wants to get you hitched with…tell me what he's like."

"Attractive," she said bluntly. "But I'd much rather be with you…but don't worry, I've got him wrapped around my finger. It was surprisingly easy."

Demyan felt and unbelievable amount of anger and jealousy towards this guy..._Josie's puttin' out for the son of a bitch. She shouldn't be._ Their situation infuriated him. "Are you sure it's going to work?" he inquired, trying to get his mind off of what his girl had been doing with another bastard over the past week. "Your plan, I mean."

She leaned her head against his upper arm. "Mmmm…yes. I should be able to bleed him dry in a divorce settlement, no problem."

"How'd you get your dad to let you come up? He knows this is where I am."

"I told him I'd be at the Kirkland's all through Thanksgiving, and I told Alfred that I'd be at Daddy's until early December." _Clever girl._

Demyan did have to admit - he felt a little guilty over ruining someone else's life just to improve his own. But it had to be done, right? Josie had been the mastermind, after all, not him. "I'm puttin' my faith in you, hon," he kissed the top of head as she sighed.

"Well…there might be one _tiny_ problem…"

"Problem?" he was concerned. "What kind of problem?" _If this Kirkland prick is beatin' on her or some other shit, I swear…_

"There's this other girl there…God, what's her name? T…it started with a "T"…" Josie was to consumed with trying to remember the name that she didn't even notice Demyan had stopped kissing her hair to listen. She continued musing aloud.

"Tammy…no…Tanya? Tor…Tori! That's it."

Demyan dropped his arms to his sides, releasing her from his grip. "…Tori?" he whispered.

"Yes," Josie turned to face him. "…and her last name was really odd. Definitely foreign, but I'll be damned if I know where she was from. Spoke kind of odd, too…she sounded almost Russian-like…"

Demyan's head was beginning to spin. "…Laurinatė?" he said.

"I think so, yes!" Josie exclaimed, then suspicion clouded her beautiful face as she realized what he had just said. "Wait, how do _you_ know that?" He grabbed her by the shoulders, looking her right in the eyes.

"Demyan, what the fuck are you - !"

"This girl," he said quickly, drowning her words of protest with his own of inquiry. "Was she about eighteen? Did she have long, brown, wavy hair? Slender, pretty, and about this tall?" He held up a hand for reference.

Josie was giving him an odd look, eyes narrowed. "…Yes," she finally answered. "What the Hell is it to you, Demyan? Tell me."

But he didn't answer – he was already holstering his pistol, pulling on his coat, and shoving his feet into shoes. He didn't even stop to grab his luggage. He ignored Josie's cries of indignation and rage as he bolted from the room, racing down the hall like a blur. In front of him was the singular, crucial goal - _FUCK I HAVE TO GET TO HEADQUARTERS. _And behind him were Josie's screams of "GODDAMMIT, TELL ME YOU BASTARTD!"

Demyan needed to get to upstate New York, and quickly. For all he knew, his life depended on it.

**(A/N)**__I'm baaa~aaack! Some of you already know, but I was in St. Louis last weekend with no access to a computer (the hotel internet sucked, anyways). But here it is - Installment seven! Guess who's going to be introduced next chapter? GUESS. (I know I keep that, but this time it's TRUE) I am so excited ~ :D I hope you guys are looking forward to reading chapter six as much as I am to writing it.

A "Fob" as Tiesa refers to, is a slang term standing for "**F**resh **o**ff the **b**oat" – typically applied to brand new immigrants. It's not really a complimentary term :/ and she's reading _A Tale of Two Cities_, by Charles Dickens (show of hands if you've read it!) I read it in ninth grade English class. Good read, but kind of archaic and difficult. Carton, Lucy, and Darnay are the main characters, and Carton is totally the best…just saying ;) A "**krysha**" is what the Russian mafia calls someone who's an enforcer. A "**Pakhan**" is like the Godfather :3 (LOVE that movie) "**bratva**" is the Russian word for mafia

I can't believe I forgot to mention this earlier, so I might as well do it now. ALFRED DOES NOT WEAR GLASSES…yet ;3 And yes, another OC. This time it's Demyan Demidov. AND THE PLOT THICKENZZZ - with Arthur's scandalous illegitimate child (Sealand!) and Josie's Russian-American boy-toy, our cast is almost complete. Peter should be about 12ish… literally the age he is in the anime. And Arthur is like, forty-nine. Or something like that :P (f.y.i.)

I also tried to write Demyan's portion in a gruffer kind of voice…was that evident? Did it fit with the flow of the others? I dunno. BUT REVIEW, SIL VOUS PLAIT (please). It would be so awesome to get some crazy high number of reviews on this story…


	8. Chapter 7

**Lessons in Housekeeping** – Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER: **Man, I think I'm beginning to run out of creative ways to say that _Hetalia is not my property_!

_**November 24**__**th**__**, 1925**_

Tiesa was walking down Main Street, taking care to avoid the gray slush that spilled over the edges of the curb and spread a slippery layer of half-melted snow over the sidewalk. Drivers crept carefully down the street as hordes of children darted across it, set free from the prison called "school" by Thanksgiving break. The town wasn't small, but it wasn't huge either. It still held the endearing charm of a tinnier community, and didn't have the hustle and bustle nature of a city.

_I really do like it here! _Tiesa relished the opportunity to go into town; usually she would stop to peek in through the shop windows to see what was being sold inside, stop in the local bakery to pick up a pastry for lunch. _What was that thing I had called? _She tried to remember_…a dough-ring? A doughnut!_ But not today – today, the young woman was on a mission. She was hunting for Thanksgiving dinner.

_But in a figurative sense, of course…_she had only been notified of this upcoming holiday the previous evening. Mr. Jones had found it appalling she had never celebrated it before. All truth be told, she never really had anyone to celebrate it _with_. Her cousin in Pennsylvania probably hadn't even known Thanksgiving existed, and she and Felicja had never possessed the money or seen the reason for cooking an elaborate dinner to celebrate the colonization of a future country they didn't belong to.

Thanksgiving, gathered from what Mr. Jones had told her, was a holiday spent with family. But since her family was on the other side of the world and his was mostly not on speaking terms, it was just going to be him and her the entire evening. Tiesa had to admit to herself that she was excited by the opportunity to be alone with her employer, but at the same time the entire celebration had a kind of empty feel to it. _My family is far away, and his doesn't care enough to show up…what a holiday._ Tiesa wondered why he didn't invite any of his friends over, but she didn't want to pry.

She had spent the last few hours doing the required errands –Tiesa had gone and bought everything they would need come the 26th, all bought and paid for with the extraneous amount of money Mr. Jones had bequeathed upon her to purchase the holiday foods. She had taken extra care to save every receipt, to keep track of all the change.

Tiesa knew she didn't need to show Mr. Jones the change a receipts to let him know she hadn't stolen, hadn't bought anything for herself or lifted a few coins and bills. She kept them incase Mr. Kirkland or Miss Josie should happen to call her morals into question, which the young woman was willing to bet practically anything they'd do sooner or later. So, being the suspect of theft wasn't _really _her problem – her problem was how much stuff she had to carry.

Her arms were overloaded with everything from eggs to bread, from cranberries to yams. And to top it all off, a huge twenty-five pound turkey was balancing precariously on the tip of the grocery pile-stack thing…_whatever I guess it is._ It had been the last bird the butcher had on him – it was too late to try to go somewhere else for a turkey, so she'd just have to make due. _I hope Mr. Jones won't mind leftovers for a while!_ It was a miracle she'd made it as far as she had, considering all the different bags and boxes she had to mind. Just one misplaced foot, one errantly located patch of slush or slippery ice, and everything would be covering the sidewalk as one huge Thanksgiving mess. _And the car is still three blocks away…_it was highly unlikely that Tiesa would make it there without incident. Already she could feel her tendons and muscles protesting, surely getting to rebel against her the next day for making them work so hard; scrubbing and stirring and polishing they could do, no problem. But carry a load over thirty pounds? Forget about it.

"You, like, need some help with those?" Tiesa froze. Was she hearing things? Had her lonesome and worry-wrought mind finally snapped and started providing a familiar voice to fill all those bouts of silence and self-reflection? She turned around as quickly as the groceries would let her. A feeling of elation rose in her chest, a grin breaking heedlessly across her face.

"Felicja!"

There Felicja stood, leaning against the display window for a tailor and clothing store. She still looked the same, but then again Tiesa probably did too. It had only been just over three weeks, after all. _But it felt like an eternity! _Relief enveloped her life rain after a drought. Felicja was safe, she was alive, she didn't look hurt or starving. She didn't look nearly as angry as the last time Tiesa had seen her…in fact the pole didn't look very upset at all. The guilt and self-condemnation that had been quietly gnawing away at Tiesa's conscience the past month faded away, replaced by a sense of completion and pure happiness. She could tell by Felicja's expression that her friend felt something similar.

"Long time no see, Esa!" her best friend plucked the turkey and a couple boxes off the top of the pile in her arms after delivering a quick hug – any longer and Tiesa would have dropped every single item she had been holding. Tiesa immediately felt the difference, standing up straighter gratefully and loosening her hold on the remaining items.

"Uhh…Esa, where are you taking these?"

Tiesa motioned in the direction with a nod of her head. "This way, follow me." There was no awkward moment of silence on their walk to the car, mostly because when around Felicja there _is _no moment of silence – period. Not awkward, not suspenseful, not anything. She just chattered away as if their argument all those days ago had not taken place; like everything had been normal the past couple of weeks. That was one of the reasons why the two of them made such great friends - they fought, yes, but they both got over themselves eventually.

"So, how've you been?" Felicja finally asked, after recounting the brief tale of her embarrassing run in with the milk man the previous day.

"_Me_?" Tiesa responded incredulously, adjusting a package wrapped in paper from the bakery and another from the butcher. "What about _you_? All you've done is told me what happened to you yesterday morning!"

Felicja shrugged nonchalantly, eyes rolling up to the sky. She scuffed her foot absent-mindedly on the cement walkway in a gesture of aloofness. "I got fired."

"What?" Tiesa cried, partly out of shock and partly out of disbelief. "Oh, Felicja, I'm so sorry!" _And here I was thinking everything was fine…_well, just goes to show that maybe her friend wasn't as capable as she assumed her to be. But she really had been wishing Felicja the best…

Felicja responded with the slight wave of her hand, the action impeded by the turkey she was carrying, and shaking her head. "Like, don't be," Tiesa could see the car in the distance as the other young woman continued. "I got this totally awesome _new_ job, and best of all I'm getting a date out the entire ordeal." She wiggled her blond eyebrows in a cocky fashion.

They were finally at the car, and the first thing Tiesa did was finagle and experiment until she finally found a way to open the trunk without dropping anything. Both women deposited their armloads of groceries into the bed of the not-to-expensive-but-definitely-not-a-lemon vehicle. Tiesa brushed off her coat.

"That's wonderful, Felicja," and she meant every single word of it. "It's kind of funny really…we don't see one another for three weeks and all these things happen…"

Felicja smiled, nodding and not speaking or making any motion to leave. _She wants something…but what?_ Her friend tapped the passenger side window, looking at her with eyes like saucers and a face that could have made the devil himself give her whatever she wanted. Tiesa sighed, kind of amused, brushing a loose strand of mousy hair behind her ear.

_I know what she wants._ "Do you want to come back to my employer's house and have lunch with me, Felicja? I'm positive Mr. Jones won't mind."

The blonde's face lit up. "_YEAH_! Let's go!" Eagerly she tried to wrench open the passenger's side door, and struggled in vain until Tiesa came over and unlocked it. "Oh…" she said. "…thanks." Then Felicja slid inside and slammed the door behind her, making herself perfectly comfortable. Tiesa followed suit, and it wasn't long before they were driving on the winding country road that would take them to Mr. Jones's place of residence.

At first they talked about nonsensical things, about anything other than Tiesa's job, where she was living, or directly addressing the fight that had happened between them. Then the conversation gradually trickled away to nothing and died, indicating the first awkward moment of silence that had occurred between them in a very long while. It stretched on as Tiesa stared at the road ahead; Felicja, too. _It's not like we can avoid it any longer…_Tiesa decided to bite the bullet and just get it out of way, destroy that lurking sense of regret and caution that had lingered amidst them today.

"So…have you forgiven me yet?" she asked evenly, eyes on the lookout for any late-season deer that might decide to take a scamper across the dirt roadway. _Obviously she must have to some degree, otherwise she wouldn't be here right now and I'd probably be buying new groceries to replace the ruined, dropped ones._

There was the creaking of leather as Felicja adjusted herself in the seat. "Would I be here talking with you and stuff if I hadn't?" her friend sighed. "Have…Esa, have _you_ forgiven _me_?"

_You mean for not trusting me to make the right decisions for myself? _"Yes, I have," Tiesa assured her. "You have _no idea_ how worried I've been about you."

"Yeah, me too," Felicja started fiddling around with the glove box, opening and closing it repeatedly like a child would do. "I…I _have_ forgiven you…like, you know, mostly." There was a smile in the blonde's voice.

"Oh, only 'mostly'?" she joked back. Tiesa looked both ways at an intersection before making a turn. She was being very wary – she knew how to drive, but she hadn't needed to do so in such a long time. It wasn't like she had a car, much less the money to buy gas for one; her road-skills were rusty. She was just lucky Mr. Jones had so many…there was a building on the estate that had probably once housed horses, but now was the make-shift garage of at least five different vehicles.

"Yup," Felicja flipped down the visor in front of her, checking her hair in the mirror before whipping it closed; she took on a degree of seriousness…well, as serious as someone like Felicja gets. "I want to see what you've gotten yourself into before I, like, _completely_ absolve you of your sins."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

It was not long before they were in the kitchen, Felicja comfortably seated at the little table tucked into the corner of the room, Tiesa standing at the counter preparing three lunches. Tiesa was experiencing a probably unholy amount of satisfaction; she'd shown the other young woman around the house, and she'd been thoroughly impressed. Tiesa's room in particular had been an area of interest.

"So you clean this place _all by yourself_?" Felicja had asked once the tour was over, upon being led into the kitchen.

Tiesa had shrugged. "It's not so bad."

"Not so bad" was a massive understatement. Working for Mr. Jones was the easiest, most pleasant domestic experience she had ever had. Speaking of her employer, he was currently out of the house. Which wasn't a bad thing, she supposed, but she really wanted to introduce Felicja to him. _Then she'll see I'm safe here._

Even still, Tiesa made sure to prepare an extra sandwich for the young man; he'd probably be back soon anyway. When he got here Felicja's fears would be abated, and then the two of them could get on with their lives; best friends as always. But that was what made the blonde such a good friend; even if she was fickle, immature, and sometimes rather selfish, she really and truly loved Tiesa. They were like the sisters neither one of them had ever had.

Tiesa reached for the lunch meat sitting on the wooden counter. "Beef, or turkey?" she asked her friend.

"Ham. With lettuce and lots of tomatoes."

"So, Felicja," she said, layering the blonde's desired ingredients on a slice of bread. "Tell me about this man of yours…the one you've got a date with."

Felicja grinned slyly, propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin her in her palms. Tiesa picked up Felicja's sandwich as well as the one she had made for herself, and set them down on the table. She sat down in a chair, picking up her food. "What? Cat got your tongue?" she prodded.

Her friend drew a circle on the wooden table with her finger, lazily. She sighed "His name's Joseph…he's tall, Polish, totally handsome…he works with me at the tailor's shop," she was starry eyed and almost _girly_ –looking, despite her menswear, make-up-less features and boyish haircut.

"Polish?" Tiesa inquired incredulously. _In this area?_

Felicja shrugged her shoulders. "Well, the grandfather on his mother's side is…that's totally enough for me." Tiesa smiled, shaking her head. Unlike her friend, she really didn't have any nationalistic preferences when it came to the opposite sex. She'd take anybody with a kind heart and good intentions, really…_maybe that's my problem. _Or was it?

The two of them continued making pleasant small talk, cracking a few jokes and catching up with each other just as they had many times before. Tiesa felt so happy to have Felicja here at her side, it was almost unreal. It was like being reunited with a long lost family member. In fact, it was just that. Over the time they had known each other, the two family-less (albeit, in different senses and under varied circumstances) women had sort of formed their own little family unit. Tiesa could not think of any other girl her age back in Lithuania or here in America that'd she had been nearly as close with.

In fact, she was having such a good time just talking and reminiscing that she almost didn't notice Mr. Jones walk in –luckily, he used the back door more often than naught. Tiesa was able to stand up and greet him just as he walked into the house.

"Hey, Tori," he said, attention still directed outside and pointing a finger at the turkey Tiesa had carefully placed on the back stoop – it had been too big to fit in the fridge, and it was cold that day, so she'd figured… "I got a look at that turkey and…" he trailed off, focus now shifting to Felicja. His eyes widened slightly, blinking in shock.

"Who are you?" He seemed more thrown off than shaken or angry. _Thank goodness._

Felicja lifted her chin, the ham sandwich still held in her hands. "Esa's best friend," she answered simply and haughtily, as if to say _"What, did you think I was some bum off the street?"_ Luckily though, she didn't. Tiesa interjected before the blonde said something rash that she wouldn't be able to take back; she could tell that Felicja still didn't quite trust him. _How could she? It's only been ten seconds!_ Then, she realized. _She said Esa! ESA! I told him my name was Tori…_

Felicja knew that Tiesa used the alias of "Tori" wherever she found a job, but she didn't know that here, specifically, Tori was all she wanted to be called. No "Esa", no "Tiesa." Just, "Tori." _Maybe he didn't pick up on it…_she could only hope.

"Mr. Jones," she motioned to the other woman. "This is my friend, Felicja Łukasiewicz; I ran into her today while I was on my grocery run and invited her over for lunch…I hope you don't mind?" Perhaps she had acted without thinking; it was terribly unprofessional, bringing a friend to her employer's home? Her workplace? _What's the matter with me!_

But Mr. Jones just smiled, crinkling up his blue eyes with surprised intrigue as he did so. "Not at all! Very pleased to meet you, Felicja," he extended his hand, and the blonde raised her eyebrows at the gesture. _Please Felicja, for the love of God, just shake his hand! _Her friend was appraising, scanning the young man from head to foot, scrutinizing and searching doggedly for any visible flaw. The entire process lasted about three seconds, so Tiesa wasn't even sure if her employer had known it had taken place.

Felicja held out her own hand, locking it with his and shaking firmly, "Likewise."

Tiesa felt like cheering, going crazy with ecstasy, but miraculously managed to kept it on the inside._ I knew she was wrong! I knew I could make the right decisions for myself! And now she knows that too…_for Felicja had liked what she'd seen; she wouldn't have taken Mr. Jones's hand otherwise.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

After everyone was done with their food, the unlikely trio moved into the living room; it was more comfortable there, anyway. The rest of the visit was filled with pleasant small talk; Tiesa was surprised that Felicja had been able to keep her attention focused on one conversation with one person for so long…or that she hadn't said anything offensive yet. _Just a matter of time..._but she wasn't too worried; people here didn't get worked up like they did in New York. Felicja had made many an enemy - and Tiesa too, just by association. She let her employer and friend dominate the floor; they both had a lot to say, and were enjoying doing so to each other quite a bit.

But as surprised as she was at Felicja's willingness to sit still and converse like a normal adult, she was even more surprised with how well Mr. Jones was carrying on the entire exchange. It was quite impressive; not only did he keep up with the rapid-fire pace at which the blonde spoke, but he could also found spots to interject and start a new topic even after the most bizarre comment…_he's holding his own…now _that's_ impressive!_ Tiesa just sat back, piggy-backing on what someone else had said every-now-and-then, or listening to the frantic and chaotic game of words and wit that was playing out before her very eyes.

Felicja checked the men's' watch around her wrist, its leather band three sizes too big and flopping about her hand like a bracelet that didn't fit. "Aw," she groaned. "Esa, you have to take me back."

"For what?" Tiesa yawned - she'd almost nodded off, the late nights reading and the early mornings working finally beginning to catch up to her.

"For my shift at the tailor's shop," Felicja got up and stretched lazily. "I'm actually, like, kinda sorta late…?"

"What?" she shot to her feet from her stationary position, head leaning against the armrest of the couch and legs curled beneath her. "You're _late_?"

"Pshhhh…," the blonde waved her hand in an aloof way, as if batting away Tiesa's suddenly manifested nervousness and hast. "It's totally all good…Joseph'll cover for me."

Tiesa shook her head in disbelief. "Come on, I'll drive you."

Mr. Jones accompanied the two women to the door. "Hey, uh…Felicja," he scratched his head. "Would you like to come over for Thanksgiving?" Tiesa blinked, caught off-guard by the young man's sudden proposition to her friend…_and why?_ He looked back and forth between the blonde and the brunette; as if unsure he'd done the right thing. _Why would he invite one of my friends…well, my _only _friend…to Thanksgiving dinner? I'm his housemaid!_

Felicja smiled, tapping her chin in a mock-display of serious though. "That depends – can I bring a date?"

A grin lit up Mr. Jones's face as he nodded. "Yeah, go ahead. We have more than enough turkey…seriously though, that thing's gigantic."

Felicja slid her arms into her coat, shoving her feet into her shoes. Tiesa just stood by, in a minor state of confusion and shock.

"Then consider me there," Felicja grabbed Tiesa by the arm and opened the door. "Like, thanks for having me in your home and stuff."

"Anytime."

The two of them then walked all the way to the car, still parked around front from when they'd gotten back from shopping. The second Tiesa and Felicja were safely inside the hushed quiet and protected interior of the car, the blonde turned so fast and so suddenly the chassis actually _rocked_.

"Spill," she demanded.

"Spill what?"

Her friend rolled her eyes, throwing her hands up into the air. "What'da ya think? The reason for that cast-off faraway-look in your eyes the entire time – especially just now."

"I was just…a little surprised that he would ask you to Thanksgiving dinner."

"Why?" Felicja puffed out her chest indignantly. "Something wrong with me?"

Tiesa shook her head, sticking the key into the ignition and starting the car with a muffled _chk-chk-vrrrrrrr._ "No, it's not that. I guess I wasn't expecting him to ask the friend of his maid to come, is all…"

"Total newsflash, Esa," Felicja stuck her feet up on the dash as the car pulled out of the driveway. "Not every rich person is an uppity asshole."

"Well, yes, I know," she protested, still trying to figure out why Mr. Jones had so readily extended a hand of invitation and welcome to a woman he barely even knew. "It's just so…"

"Your just trying to find a flaw in the guy so you can come up with an excuse not to like him," the blonde interrupted, matter-of-factly.

Tiesa's hands tightened on the wheel. "I am not!" But even as she said it, she could feel her cheeks begin to heat and redden; belying the truth that hid beneath her protests to both her friend and to herself. Felicja raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"I saw the way you kept looking at him in there, and as your best friend in the entire universe, I _demand_ that you give me the details. All the way down to the totally nitty-gritty!"

_Damn it!_ "I uhhh...," she was at a complete loss for words, too busy trying to organize the sudden barrage of worries and new contemplations assaulting her mind. _What looks? I didn't give him _any_ looks! Felicja's making it up...but, was it really that obvious?_

Felicja continued. "Well, in case you were wondering or something, I _definitely_ approve. Out of all the guys you've dated this one is, like, a total keeper."

She decided to nip this one in the bud, before the blonde got completely carried away and became enamored with a false reality where she and Mr. Jones were together, heedless of social class and their current professional relationship. "We're not dating," she said, probably a little too quickly.

"_What_ -! But you two would look so adorable as a couple! Just go out dancing or something…dinner! Screw "social standards" or whatever-the-hell else is keeping you apart."

Tiesa sighed, swallowing her feelings of embarrassment. _Might as well tell her the truth…_ "It's more complicated than that," she cleared her throat. "He's...he's engaged."

"A-HA!" Felicja was now kneeling on the seat – a completely unsafe position to be in while riding in a car, Tiesa noted – pointing her finger in a manner that was part accusation, part victory. "I totally _knew_ it! You like him!" Then a dip in the road caused the car to jostle violently for a just a moment, but it was just long enough to propel Felicja upwards into the ceiling.

"Owww…," the pole rubbed the top of her head, giving the source of her sudden pain an evil glare.

"I said no such thing," Tiesa managed to maintain her calm and her composure, barely holding back laughter at her friend's expense, and slight-panic at her own. The warring emotions elicited a smile that wasn't quite sure whether to turn or down.

"Might as well have," Felicja protested, adjusting her position to one more suited for driving down a bumpy country road. They could see the lights from town ahead. "Esa," she said quietly (quietly for Felicja, that is). "What does this girl have that you don't?"

_Everything! _Tiesa wanted to say. _Beauty, clothes, money, a life…_but she really didn't feel like getting a lecture on self-esteem, so she didn't. Not tonight.

"You can beat her!" Felicja had begun her own variant of a motivational speech anyway. "What have you got, huh?" Tiesa didn't answer; it was a rhetorical question, one presented to her on many a previous occasion. "You've got looks, smarts, a sense of humor! _A God damn sense of humor, Esa_! Do you like, even know how rare that is to come across in uppity dames? Plus, you make a helluva cup 'a coffee. What are you waiting around for? Go, fight, WIN!"

Tiesa peeled her eyes from the road just long enough to catch a glimpse of Felicja's pose – arms held up in the air, fingers splayed wide in a gesture of confidence. They were just arriving on the outskirts of town; she racked her brain for directions to the tailor's shop.

"If I recall correctly," she said slowly. "You were against me even going to _work_ for Mr. Jones…and now you want me to steal him from his fiancée? I dunno, Felicja – that seems a little wishy-washy on your part." It was a jest of course, but she also kind of meant it.

"That was, like, before I met him!" Felicja protested. "I mean, he's so damn sexy!…besides, you could use a little spice in your life."

_Oh really? Spice and sexy men?_ "Sexier than Joseph?"

"Wee~llll…not _that_ sexy. But still pretty good lookin', if I do say so myself."

Tiesa pulled up to the curb beside the tailor's shop, the lights inside looking very inviting in the evening light. "See you later, Felicja."

"Okay…,"the blonde clambered out of the car. She turned, one hand on the door and ready to close it. "…and remember what I told you - GO AND GIVE THAT BITCH A RUN FOR HER MONEY!" Then with a resolute _slam!_, Tiesa's best friend sauntered away and into her place of employment – the place where her man of interest also resided. Tiesa felt a small twinge of jealousy. At that moment, the young woman really wished that she too had someone that could be called her own.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

_**Thanksgiving Day, November 26**__**th**__**, 1925 – Virginia Estate **_

Alfred was sitting on the couch - the very same couch in fact, that he had waited on that one life-changing summer day; so many years ago…but now he was waiting for food instead of a verdict. He was only sitting here because Tori had shooed him out of the kitchen, in her uniquely polite and hesitant manner. Apparently he'd been getting in the way, and Alfred knew that – just like his father – he was no cook. So he'd done as Tori asked and vacated the premises.

_It's almost kind of funny…_to be treated like a child by someone around his own age. She really did seem beyond her years, though. Most of the women Alfred knew still called their fathers "daddy" and lived off their trust funds…_kind of like Josie._ Tiesa was just as old – or younger? He wasn't certain of her age; just that she was a legal adult – well, _anyway_, she was much more mature than pretty much anyone he knew…one of those "old soul" types; working for a living and supporting herself.

_I wonder what it would be like to work every day?_ College had provided him with a small taste of what it would be like to have a daily obligation to work for one's shelter and food – he hadn't really cared for it (but whether he didn't like it because he truly didn't or to piss of his father was debatable). He got up and turned on the radio in the corner, tuning it to a football game. This whole NFL thing was pretty new to the scene, but he enjoyed it nevertheless. He reclined on the couch, listening to the announcer's grainy voice as it filled the room; the cheers of the crowd, the extremely faint blows of a referee's whistle…he painted an image in his head of the proceedings of the game, formed from both what information the announcer was feeding him and what he knew about football.

There were sounds coming from the kitchen, too – pots, pans, the opening and closing of the refrigerator door. They were homey sounds; ones that breathed a new kind of life into the house that he had often felt was oppressive and stifling in his childhood, despite his mother's attempts to make it otherwise. Alfred wasn't really sure when, but somewhere between the second quarter and halftime he nodded off, completely relaxed and feeling unbelievably comfortable in his around-the-house slacks and sweater, Tori still buzzing around the kitchen.

He woke up slowly, just as the game was ending – the favored team had won, apparently. _Great – now I owe Jimmy money._ Alfred lamented the loss of his sizable bet while stretching out his arms and legs, slightly stiff from remaining on the couch for so long. He rubbed his eyes and got up feeling refreshed from his nap but also incredibly thirsty. _Water…need water…_he shook off his the remaining dregs of sleepiness as he half-shuffled, half-walked into the kitchen were Tori was still slaving away.

"Oh, shit," he said, upon entering. "You need any help with that?"

Tori was balancing an uncooked turkey housed in an iron cooking pot on her knee – the kind that's made specifically for the purpose of getting pulled out of the cellar once a year for Thanksgiving, and occasionally to cook ham around Christmas time. She was holding onto one of the pot handles as she used her free hand to open the oven door.

"No," she said, wobbling slightly as she began to shift the pot to her other knee and hand. "I've got it…" Tori wobbled again; Alfred could just imagine it – a Thanksgiving disaster of the worst sort possible. How could one have a proper holiday dinner if the turkey ended up all over the floor?

He rushed over just as she started to put it in the oven. "Really, let me take it – " his fingertips brushed against her forearm as he reached for the two handles, but ended up awkwardly grabbing the pot by the bottom instead. Then Tori let go of the turkey quickly and unexpectedly, as if branded with fire – the sudden lack of support made Alfred realize _just how heavy the thing really was_! Besides, it didn't help that he was only holding one end by a single thumb…

The heavy iron cookware was too much weight to bear – it crushed his poor little digit between the oven rack and it's broad, flat bottom. Alfred felt searing pain as the pot crunched his bone and the heated over rack burned his skin. "OW! GOD!" He leapt back, yanking his finger from its hot iron torture chamber. Miraculously, the turkey stayed in the oven, but at this point that was the least of his problems.

"JESUS!" he had felt some unpleasant things in his lifetime – this was a new and particularly nasty one. "SHHHHHHII-" he caught a glimpse of Tori's face and the curse died in his throat. She was stricken, eyes wide and hands clutching the sides of her face as if this was all her fault and the-absolute-worst-thing-she-had-ever-done.

"M-mr. Jones, I'm s-so sorry!" she cried, rushing to his side and practically collapsing there. "I'm s-sorry, it's my f-fault! It really is, I w-won't do it again - please, please, _p-p-please_, don't be angry with me –"

"Tori – " he tried to interject, holding his injured thumb like a baby bird with a broken wing. She was descending into partial hysteria, babbling on and shaking her head, voice cracking with self-blame and anxiety.

"I r-really didn't mean t-too, it w-was an a-accident! I-I'm such an idiot, p-please –"

"Tori!" he said it louder this time, managing to cut through her frantic apologies and comments filled with self-loathing. She stopped; looking nervous and harried, eyes still trapped wide open as if anticipating a verbal reprimand…or worse. _Why the strong reaction? There's that stuttering thing, again…she's upset._ Alfred was determined to make it right, to abate her fears, whatever they were; he wanted to show her that he was not angry, or blamed her.

"Y-yes?"

"Stop…freaking out…" he began, but then she looked absolutely crushed. He backtracked, and quickly. One thing that really tore him up inside was watching a girl cry. "No! I didn't mean it like that!" he assured her. "What I wanted to say it that it's _not _your fault I hurt myself – it was all me."

She still looked a bit uncertain, wringing her hands together fretfully. "A-are you _sure_?"

"Yes," he said. "…and besides - even if it was - I've still got the other one now, don't I?" Alfred wiggled his unharmed thumb in the air for emphasis, a carefree grin on his face. "So take those tears back, alright? I'm not mad at you, promise."

"What?" she put a hand to her cheek, and upon feeling the wetness there she blushed. "I-I'm sor-"

"Nope!" Alfred interrupted her. "No more apologies."

"Oh, I'm sor-"

"No more!"

"But-!"

"None!"

Tori let her hands fall to her sides in defeat, utterly lost at being denied the ability to ask for forgiveness. The panic and horror painting her face was now gone, replaced by a determined gleam in her eyes that was a stark contrast with the way she'd been just mere moments earlier. She lifted her chin a little higher.

"At least let me take a look at it, Mr. Jones…"

"Ahhh…," Alfred took a look at said finger. _It's fine…_it really wasn't; but he would rather die of embarrassment than admit to Tori that he was going to cede a little bit of his manhood for the sake of a mere finger injury. So he steeled himself, trying his hardest to keep his discomfort from becoming visible on his face and the way he held himself. _I am a _man_…I CAN TAKE IT! _"No thanks, I'm fine."

Tori fixed him with a look he didn't even know she was capable of mustering. _Jesus, no wonder she goes around looking so nice and innocent all the time…_it wasn't a mean look, or one that distorted her features. It was one that made it obvious she wasn't buying any of his bullshit; Alfred could practically feel those green eyes of hers cut right to the truth amidst his web of bravado and put-on manliness.

So, when she said for a second time - "Mr. Jones, I think you should _really_ let me take a look at your thumb," he nodded…and quickly.

He followed her to the upstairs bathroom –the one down the hall from his childhood bedroom. It wasn't as big as the master so things felt a little cramped and claustrophobic with two fully grown adults in there (it _was _an older house, after all) but Alfred wasn't complaining; he wouldn't have even if he thought he could get away with it. Tori had an aura of strength of will emanating around her that he hadn't detected before – he was just going to do what she told him to for the time being.

"Sit there, please," she pointed to the toilet, and Alfred took a seat after dropping the lid. He propped his elbows on his knees, one fist under his chin. He watched her back as she rummaged through the cupboards under the sink and the medicine cabinet mounted right next to the mirror. He didn't say a word, and neither did she. The general feeling in the room wasn't _tense_, per say…in fact, Alfred was having quite a difficult time figuring out just what it was, exactly.

After a few minutes of searching, Tori settled on the edge of the bathtub next to him, a small pile of medical supplies in her lap.

"I see you've familiarized yourself with the stuff in all the cabinets and cupboards," he observed. Tori put out a hand, and he placed his palm against hers. _Her hand is really soft…_odd, considering her profession. Alfred would have assumed they'd be calloused or dried out from washing floors; something like that, anyway. But instead they were smooth – smooth_er_, even – like his own. His comment elicited a small smile from the young woman. His humor had not been lost on her.

"Yes," she said, turning his hand over gently. "I organized them when I got here." The Tori took ahold of his injured thumb, and pulled backwards ever so slightly. Alfred sucked in his breath, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the pinching, piercing pain that was now lancing up his thumb and through his hand. She winced at his reaction, peering up at him sheepishly.

"Sorry," she apologized, but Alfred didn't stop her this time. "Did that hurt?"

"No, not at all," he lied badly, and he knew that she knew he was doing so. Then, in a joking manner, "Why don't you do it again?" One could hardly imagine his horror when he actually saw Tori _reaching to pull on his finger a second time_! "No! Don't!" he said, probably a little louder than he needed to. He ground his teeth – that outburst had been very…_sissy_. Unmanly, not tough…

Tori looked up, her now-calm eyes meeting his now-pained ones. "I'm not going to pull on it, Mr. Jones. I'm just going to see if it's broken."

"Oh…," he still felt like an idiot. "Uhhh…continue?"

He watched as Tori gingerly felt around his joints, as well as up and down where he assumed bones resided within his flesh. It felt tender, but it was nowhere nearly as agonizingly painful as when she had pulled it. _She's being incredibly gentle._

After about forty-five seconds of this she gave him a verdict. "It's not broken," Tori said aloud, sure of herself.

Alfred couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. "Good…I don't know how I would have carved that turkey with a broken thumb…" he smiled to indicate his humor.

"But...," she ceded, still examining the black-and-blue digit.

"But what?"

"…can you move it?"

Alfred bent his thumb at the knuckle and bit back a very inappropriate word from to keep it from flying out of his mouth. _Damn, that's becoming habit for me, isn't it? _He grimaced as a wave of discomfort radiated from the spot where he bent his finger, all the way up to his wrist.

"Yes," Tori said, reassured. "You probably just have a tissue bruise…here," she had routed through the small collection of medical supplies in her lap, producing a tiny tongue depressor, a few strips of gauze, and something which didn't have a label on it but what he assumed to be rubbing alcohol.

"We have tongue depressors?" he asked in disbelief as she poured a little bit of the probably-rubbing-alcohol onto his thumb, presumably to disinfect the burn that was already starting to blister there.

"Oh!," Tori exclaimed. "Is that what their called?"

Despite himself, he suddenly felt a lot less comfortable with her touching such a vulnerable part of his body so forwardly. She took one of the gauze strips and wrapped it around the wooden depressor.

"What are you going to do?" he asked her, as politely as possible, trying to keep the young woman from picking up on his anxiety. _Is it really my fault if I don't like pain?_

A patient, "Just hold still for me, please," was all he got in response. Warily, Alfred watched as Tori took the gauze-wrapped depressor and lined it up on the un-burned side of his thumb. It hurt a bit as she adjusted his finger so it was straight, but now he was beginning to figure out what she was doing. Then she wrapped a few more gauze strips around the thumb and gently sticking it with a medical pin, securing the make-shift splint in place. Tori craned her head back slightly, as of admiring her handiwork.

"You should probably leave that on for a week," she said. "…or two," she ceded, and then shrugged. "…possibly three. I wouldn't know – I'm not a doctor!"

"Maybe you should be," he told her, noting that his thumb felt almost normal and pain-free now that he couldn't move it. "Where'd you learn how to do this, anyway?" Alfred again realized just how little he knew about his housekeeper, and that he wanted to learn _more_.

Tori smiled. "With a friend like Felicja, I needed to learn just to get through one day."

Alfred nodded, _no doubt!_ The girl was probably certifiably insane…or hyperactive, at least. _Something_! He could easily imagine the young woman's friend getting the both of them into some type of trouble or another – Felicja almost reminded Alfred of himself, in and odd kind of disconnected way. At least she was entertaining; that afternoon two days ago had been the most eventful for him in a long while.

In fact, the entire reason he'd invited her was not only because he found her fun to be around, but because he wanted to make Tori enjoy the holiday to the fullest. Thanksgiving tended to be a rough occasion amidst the absence of family (Alfred would know – he'd been eating a ceremonial turkey sandwich for dinner by himself for the past decade). And since, gathered from what she'd shared with him, this was her first, he figured he might as well invite Felicja too. The next best option to family was friends; something Alfred had few true of, if any. _Besides…we really need to get people to eat the damned turkey._ He highly doubted two people alone would be able to finish it themselves, even if they had leftovers for two weeks.

One thing he had noted with a considerable amount of interest was Felicja's calling Tori "Esa." _Is that her real name, a foreign word, or what?_ He tried to convince himself it didn't matter, but the curiosity was quietly eating away at him, and he didn't know how to bring the topic up without sounding rude, or insensitive. _She didn't tell me her real name for a reason…and I guess I should respect that…_

"Speaking of which," he said as Tori let go of his hand. "Shouldn't she be here soon?" Felicja and that guy she was bringing were going to show up around three o'clock – at least, that's what she had said. If the impression he'd gleaned from the Pole two days ago was any indication, she could very well be running up to their front door at that very moment; apparently she liked to keep things spontaneous.

"Oh, yes…" Tori stood, Alfred looked up so he could still see her face. "I suppose I should get ready and check on the food."

Then, it happened, but just for the slightest fraction of a second. She was about to turn, he was about to stand – their eyes met for a brief moment, and Alfred could have sworn that time froze just for them right then. He had no idea what it was, just that looking her in the eyes would elicit it from the very depths of his being. And then it was over – Tori broke the spell by leaving and Alfred was all alone in the suddenly much-more-spacious bathroom.

"I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything, Mr. Jones," he heard her call over her shoulder, trotting down the staircase.

_What…what _was_ that? _He almost felt dizzy; he ended up not leaving the toilet seat for a few moments more, pondering and puzzling over what the _Hell_ he had just felt. _Could it be…? No! No, I don't think that's what it is…_he forced himself get up. He was not dressed for a Thanksgiving dinner party – who cared if only four people were going to be there? He was still technically the host, and had to look some semblance of put together. _A clean sweater and nicer pants, at least…_he supposed that was his father's distant and weak influence manifesting itself in him.

He walked to the closet of the master bedroom, a space that had once belonged to his parents but was now occupied by him every night. He rooted through the clothes in the closet – his clothes. Alfred had stashed his father's in different rooms around the house out of pure spite, and his mother's had been thrown away after her death. He withdrew a freshly ironed pair of cotton slacks; not too expensive, but not casual wear either. Then he stuck his hand back into the unorganized mess of pants, shirts, and various other articles of clothing until he found a sweater.

This one was nicer than the one he currently had on, with fine stitching made of a high-end material. This was newer…he didn't remember wearing this before, much less _seeing_ it. _Oh, yeah. Josie got this one for me…_before she'd left his fiancée had gone on a shopping trip, bringing back many things for him and herself.

"Expand your wardrobe," she'd told him, running a hand through his hair as she placed a pile of clothes in his arms. "I can do more than just improve your "nightlife". I can help you with your fashion sense, too."

Personally Alfred didn't see anything wrong with the way he dressed. But he couldn't turn down her offerings just because his pride had taken a little blow. It was odd – ever since the southern belle had vacated the premises, he hadn't been thinking about her that much. He should; he was getting _married_ to her, for Christ's sake! It wasn't like she didn't leave an impression – it just kind of faded quickly once she was gone.

…_but why?_ Alfred tried to button his collar, a small splinter of discomfort lodging itself in his injured thumb. He couldn't help but wonder…_does Josie know first-aid like Tori does?_ He shook his head as he slipped the sweater over his head, pushing his arms through the sleeves; he couldn't think like that. What had been felt in the bathroom was a fluke…right? Besides, it wasn't like he was even on the market anyways. He was saddled with Josie out of fear of his father's reparation. _What I want with Tori_, he told himself, _is friendship._

She was a great gal, a really kind person. Kinder than he felt he deserved, at any rate. _Easy to talk to, good conversationalist, witty sense of humor…_it was just so easy to share things with her. Since she'd arrived, she was the ear to all his out loud musings and thoughts. Only interrupting to ask a question or provide a little bit of feedback; not that he'd mind if she talked even more. Was she spoken for, he wondered? Did Tori have a boyfriend? If she did she certainly hadn't said anything to indicate as such…maybe he should ask her; but just for professional reasons, of course. Tori was intelligent, lucid and patient – Alfred hoped she would open up a little more so he could get to know the woman behind the closed nature she carried around like a shield.

_Well, Felicja will be here tonight,_ he brushed some lint off of his slacks, checked his hair in the full-length mirror_…maybe she'll talk a little more freely with a friend around._ He departed for the stairs – he figured he might as well set the table, cross one more thing off of the list of things needing to be completed before the arrival of their guests.

_Now that, _he figured, _is _got _to be something she knows I won't screw up!_

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Tiesa was setting the table with Mr. Jones's help; even though he had assured he her wouldn't drop anything she still kept a wary eye on the young man, making sure he didn't try to carry too much at one time or hurt himself again – especially with his thumb and all_...which is my entire fault!_ It didn't matter what he said, what he told her – Tiesa had overreacted when he touched her. It was only the brush of his fingertips on her forearm…_I'm pathetic, I really am._

Would she ever truly put _it_ behind her? How could she possibly hope to live a normal life if every touch, every sound or unrelated reference brought up those dark memories? And it was because of her overreaction that she'd stepped backwards, letting go of the turkey and enabling it to crush the poor man's thumb. It would definitely be a while before Tiesa could forgive herself for that one, even if Mr. Jones himself had already told her he didn't blame her. _But it's my fault! _

Felicja was the only person on this entire planet who she actually let got close to her in the physical sense for almost a year – and in the emotional sense as well. But she had never opened up all the way to her friend, not since _it_. Felicja was smart, though; she probably had no problem piecing together what had happened. Tiesa knew she was different…_it_ had changed her, and she hated that. The young woman was holding back, no denying it. And even if Felicja was the only person she consciously permitted to grab her arm, to sit right next to her on a bus or a train, she _still_ ended up feeling anxious and claustrophobic at times.

_I'm not going to think about that tonight,_ Tiesa resolved as she checked the turkey. _I'm going to have fun for a change._

While sliding the gigantic bird back into the oven, uncomfortably hot waves of air buffeting her face, the sound of someone knocking on the front door echoed throughout the foyer and into the kitchen. "They're here!" she called, alerting Mr. Jones to the arrival of Felicja and John just in case of the slight chance he hadn't heard their knocking.

_Should _I_ open the door, or should _he_? _Felicja was her best friend, which should have naturally ensured her the right to answer the door, but this was Mr. Jones's house. It would be rude to do so. It was a conundrum she wrestled with while walking to the foyer. Luckily it was resolved for her, as Mr. Jones had indeed heard the knock and managed to get to the front door before Tiesa had.

"Hey!" he said upon greeting Felicja and Joseph. "Glad you could make it!"

There was a flurry of "Hellos" and "Nice to meet you's" as Felicja and Joseph removed their coats.

"Esa," Felicja led her date over to Tiesa's side. "Say hi to Joseph." Tiesa smiled, said "Hello," and shook the man's hand warmly. He had kind eyes, patient eyes. _One would need those traits, to deal with Felicja as often as he does…._hell, as often as Tiesa _herself_ did!

He greeted her similarly before she was whisked off to the kitchen by Felicja, leaving Joseph and Mr. Jones to converse in the foyer. The second the two of them were out of earshot, she gave her friend a once over, shocked and surprised. This was the first time in the all the years they'd known one another that she'd seen Felicja wear actual _women's_ clothes!

"Felicja, what are you wearing?" she asked amusedly. Felicja had on a burgundy dress, pumps, some jewelry – her hair was done, and so was her makeup. But the really astonishing thing was that it all looked good.

The Pole shrugged nonchalantly. "So I want to dress up for once in my life – it's like, no big deal or anything…" she scanned Tiesa from head to toe. "What are _you_ wearing?"

Tiesa had ditched her standard modest blouse/calf-length skirt combo for a favorite second-hand dress and a nicer pair of shoes. She'd taken her hair out of its usual braid, instead opting to put it up into a French-twist. And instead of being kept hidden away in its prison underneath her clothes, her amber pendant was the showpiece of her clothing ensemble.

Despite the fact that the old silver chain had long since broken and been replaced with a length of nicer-looking string, Tiesa still wanted to display it proudly on her chest on this occasion. Usually she liked to keep the treasure private, a little piece of her family she could keep to herself…but since Thanksgiving was for family wouldn't it make sense to bring it out? It's be kind of her own little way of having Mama, Papa, Eduard and Raivis there celebrating with them.

"...a dress?" she answered Felicja's answer simply, cautiously. While her question had been the product of surprise, she had absolutely no idea as to what had prompted the blonde's.

"Yeah, but it sure isn't anything special," her friend waved her hand dismissively. "If you want to get him you have to try _way_, way harder."

Tiesa groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Look, Felicja…we've been over this. I am _not_ getting anything."

Mr. Jones chose right then to stick his head in – both of the women froze, caught in the awkward act of talking about someone behind their back; not in a negative way of course, but that didn't make it any less humiliating to have the current subject of their conversation crash their hushed exchange. _Please, please, _please_! Please not have heard anything…_and it seemed their words had gone unreceived by Mr. Jones's ears, as he had the same cheerful and oblivious nature about him as always.

"Hey Tori, Felicja," he said. "Me and Joseph'll be in the back yard if you need us for anything. We're gonna go play some one-on-one football." Then he flashed them both a thumbs up and disappeared from the doorway, his quick and loud footsteps audible down the hall as he searched for his shoes, coat, and that damn-near-impossible-to-find football.

"That was close!" Felicja whispered excitedly.

"_Too_ close!" Tiesa chastised worriedly. "If he had come in three seconds earlier…"

"Oh, stop it," Felicja sighed exasperatedly. "He didn't hear, right?"

"I guess…"

"Then, like, stop loosing hair over it," the Blonde walked over to the stove. "Bald woman are totally not attractive – then you'd never get him!" She tapped the metal door. "How long has this turkey-thing been in there, anyway?"

Tiesa checked the clock. It would be two and a half hours, at _least_, until the turkey was done. She did some quick calculations in her head and on her fingers – that would give and Felicja more than enough time to work on the pies, and then stick them in the oven, too. Once those were out of the way they'd be able to start the vegetables and various other side dishes.

So the two of them set to work, Tiesa consulting the cookbook Mr. Jones had dug out of the cellar rather often, as she had never even heard of many of these things before. _Pumpkin pie? What an interesting idea…_and what exactly was a yam? She'd been told it was a sweet potato, but on the inside it sure didn't look like any spud she'd ever seen. _Oh my God, it's orange!_ But Tiesa just put everything up to good faith and did exactly as the book told her, occasionally reading things like ingredient amounts out-loud for Felicja.

She'd put her friend in charge of the apple pie, due to its similarities to the Polish apple cake. _She'd need to do less reading,_ Tiesa figured, trying to spare Felicja the embarrassment of needing excessive assistance regarding the comprehension of the dishes recipe. Felicja was also responsible for making the more simple side dishes, like green beans. Those kinds of things were just common sense, not to mention the fact the blonde was already very familiar with them.

The entire experience was very enjoyable – Tiesa loved making the new, interesting food. She cashed the new culinary knowledge away with her already pre-existing learnedness in Lithuanian, Russian, and Polish dishes. She and Felicja were able to safely discuss Joseph and Mr. Jones, as the two men were still outside playing football –Mr. Jones in particular. Her friend would ask little sideways questions, trying to extract information regarding their relationship through subtlety. It didn't really work, much to Felicja's chagrin and Tiesa's amusement.

Soon all four of them were gathered around one end of the table in the formal dining room, the best china and silverware out on Mr. Jones's insistence, and their glasses filled to the brims with a very tasteful wine taken from a secret stash in the cellar. The food was all laid out of the richly-hued wooden surface of the table, creating a myriad of delicious-looking colors and smells that permeated the room with their warmth and home-like feeling.

Mr. Jones chose to sit at the head of the table, Felicja directly across from her, and Joseph happily next to his date; Tiesa herself was right by Mr. Jones The two men looked like they had bonded quickly over the rough sport they had enjoyed during the preparation of dinner – her employer's hair was mussed, and his expensive-looking sweater was damp and mud-streaked; Joseph was in a similar state. Neither man had changed; Joseph because he hadn't brought a spare outfit, and was too humble to accept Mr. Jones's offer of borrowing his own. Mr. Jones, likewise, hadn't change because he hadn't wanted his guest to be the only dirty one at the table – a rather considerate and gracious action, Tiesa thought.

"Let us join hands for grace...," Mr. Jones held his hand out for Tiesa, and for the second time that day, she took it. She could feel the splint she'd put on his thumb earlier press gently against her palm. His hands were not soft, but they were not rough either. Having only been touching that back of his hand earlier, this was the first contact she'd had with his palm. Tiesa swore she could almost feel an anxious energy in his touch – _is that even normal?_ – but dismissed it as her wistful imagination getting carried away with itself. _No use hoping for the impossible…_Then she reached across the table and linked up with Felicja, and then their circle of thanks was complete.

"Tori," Mr. Jones said to her. "Since you're the one who provide us with all this great food, would you like to start?"

_ Really? He's giving me this honor?_ Tiesa smiled. "Of course." she bowed her head, as did the others.

"I would like to give thanks for the graciousness Mr. Jones has shown me these past few months," she began, catching a knowing smirk work its way across Felicja's face. Luckily, she was the only one who noticed. "…and to allowing me the services and shelter of his home. I am also thankful for Felicja," she shot a mildly pointed glance in her friend's direction, who saw it, removing the smirk but replacing it with a wiggle of blonde eyebrows. "…for her help this evening and that she has been such a good friend to me all these years."

Mr. Jones then looked to Felicja. "Felicja – would you like to continue?"

Felicja cleared her throat dramatically. "So," she started. "I would like to thank that God guy up there for Joseph…and everybody's health…uhhh, and Esa…and my wonderful sense of fashion!" She finished, obviously satisfied with her offerings. Then Joseph took over, in his quiet, sensible way.

"I am thankful that I had the chance to meet Felicja," the blonde glowed with happiness at his words. "…that Alfred was so kind as to invite us over for dinner, and Tori especially, for making all of this."

"Hey, I helped!" Felicja interjected, good-naturedly. Joseph smiled, with a small shake of his head."…and Felicja for helping," he concluded.

Then it was Mr. Jones's turn. "Well, first of all," he said, humor in his voice. "I'm very, _very_ thankful that Tori know first-aid!" he held up his splinted thumb, breaking contact with Tori's hand for the briefest moment. The other chuckled, as did the young man. He continued after a few moments of soft laughter. "…and I am also blessed to have her as a friend. Alright, everybody…dig in!"

_ F…friend?_ Tiesa couldn't belief it. _He just called me his friend!_ She felt and immense sense of elation. …_but why?_ All they did was talk - and pleasantly so - she'd introduced him to Felicja, helped him with his thumb…_oh my God, we _are_ friends!_ The revelation filled her chest with a warm, fuzzy, most0likely dangerous feeling. _Friends! "Friends" is all he said though, Tiesa – not "soul mates." Get ahold of yourself._ But even still, the fact that Mr. Jones considered her, his _housemaid_, a close enough acquaintance to call her "friend" – and in front of other people, too! – was a source of practical euphoria.

She almost didn't let go of his hand that she so tentatively held on her grasp, but realized that holding on another second longer would probably just raise up awkward questions. Even after releasing it though, she could still feel the warmth of his palm. That eager energy Tiesa had felt in Mr. Jones's own had seemed to have settled in her chest and in her head.

The rest of the meal was occupied by pleasant chit-chat which she happily took part in, Mr. Jones's words still running through her head. They all joked and talked as if they had known one other for years, as if this wasn't just some last-minute slap-dash gathering of practical strangers (excluding Tiesa and Felicja, of course). The food was delicious, and Tiesa discovered that, despite the oddness of its texture and appearance, she actually liked pumpkin pie. The yams she tried too, but didn't care for nearly as much.

After dessert and one last glass of illegal drunken wine, Felicja and Joseph bid their farewells. The couple was expected later in the evening at Joseph's own family gathering.

"Remember," Felicja had whispered into Tiesa's hair while delivering a tight hug. "Go, fight, win!" Then she'd winked encouragingly, and Tiesa had to fight to keep a slight blush from coloring her cheeks. After their guests had departed, Tiesa had started about the cleanup. Just as Mr. Jones had helped her set the plates before dinner, he helped her clear them afterwards.

He sat at the kitchen table while nursing a late-night cup of coffee and keeping her company, Tiesa standing at the sink and washing the dishes at a leisurely, relaxed pace. A comfortable, almost satisfied, silence sat between them as they wordlessly served as a barrier against the lonely, now empty house for each other.

Once the last dish and final spoon were washed, dried, and carefully put back into the china cabinet, Tiesa turned to her employer. "Good night, Mr. Jones," then with a slight inclination of her head, she began the short walk to her quarters.

"Tori, wait a second…" she halted, her heart beating quickly in anticipation, even though she wished it wouldn't.

"Yes?"

"Well, uhh…" he scratched his head. "I just wanted you to know – today wouldn't have even happened if it weren't for you."

"Oh! Thank you…" she was flattered despite herself.

"And one more thing," Mr. Jones looked up from his coffee, a warm, open look in his eyes and on his face. "Now that we're officially friends…do you think you could call me Alfred?"

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out..._I'd be violating my own rules!_ But in all honesty she didn't really care. The decision was easy, much easier than it should have been. "Of course," she smiled, inclining her head once more.

"Have a good night, Tori," Mr. Jones told her as he stood and stretched. "I'll put away my coffee cup – I promise."

"Thank you…," Tiesa hesitated, uncertain. She could practically hear Felicja's voice, screaming in her ear - _Just do it!_ "Good night, again…Alfred."

And then she disappeared into her room so he wouldn't see the elated expression on her face. Tiesa went to bed that night, very, very happy.

_ You know,_ she thought as she rested in-between her sheets, the moonlight coming in through her window and illuminating the walls with a glow that was the lightest color of blue…_I think Thanksgiving might be my favorite holiday…_

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

_**Thanksgiving Evening, Kirkland England Estate**_

Thanksgiving. Arthur hated it, but he hadn't always. Then again, he'd hated most holidays for about ten years now; ever since the day he'd stopped considering his wife and son a family, as he was sure they had done likewise. It was on these once anticipated occasions that he seated himself in front on the fireplace, nothing but his misery, wistful memories, and a bottle of his favorite scotch to keep him company.

_Thank God that "prohibition" nonsense is done and over with here…_Arthur may worked for the American government, but that didn't mean he had to like every law, legislation, and bill those dysfunctional congressmen and representatives passed. _As if they're all following to their own laws…puh. Alcohol-free nation my ass!_ But one of the things that was great about being an ambassador was he could drink what he wanted, when he wanted, with no fear or reparation. And right now, Arthur wanted scotch.

He was reclining in his favorite chair, the crackling glow of the fireplace casting a sphere of heat around him. Solemnly, Arthur knocked back another heavy-bottomed glass filled with the poisonous amber-brown liquid. This was what now, his eighth? He didn't know…he'd begun to lose track around five…_or was it four…? _There was paperwork to be done – the American Thanksgiving wasn't a holiday in good old England. Guess they figured they didn't need to celebrate the beginning of a colony that would later declare independence; effectively eschewing their protector, their guardian from all the horrible things in the world, from their lives as despised and obsolete.

_I'm kind of like England…_Arthur thought, sloppily refilling the glass. …_and that brat Alfred is like the colony…_He loved Alfred, he really did. He just didn't like to admit it to himself very often…sometimes, when he was drinking, he would have these periods of clairvoyance. He was hurt by the way Alfred had pushed him out of his life, and at such a young age, too. Arthur knew that he was the one to blame for that fiasco, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself it was Francine who had cheated first. He hated himself. He had turned cold over the years, built walls of spite and blame for everyone but himself. And those he'd loved had built some of their own. Would he ever be able to break through his own and climb over his son's, to apologize? Even if he did, Arthur doubted he'd be forgiven. The damage inflicted on their relationship was deeply seated and not easily forgotten.

As he raised the glass to his lips, he heard the footsteps again. _Not now…_Peter came into the room, warily stationing himself beside Arthur's chair; the older gentleman didn't even spare him a sideways glance. Peter knew full well of his father's morbid holiday tradition; to get one thing absolutely clear - Arthur had never, _ever_ raised a hand to or laid a single finger on the boy...but a lot of the time a simple insult or an aptly placed jab could be just as bruising, just as cutting.

"Dad…," Peter said, the meaning of his words coming in slightly garbled through Arthur's alcohol induced state. "Are we having Thanksgiving this year?"

_What a stupid question._ "No. Why on earth would you think that?" his speech was slurred by drink, his usually cold-and-distant aura when around his son becoming biting and sarcastic. The scotch whiskey hardened him, made him think and say things he never would have otherwise. But Peter didn't know that.

The boy shuffled his feet uncertainly, put-off for the tenth-year in a row. The entire span of his life, he had never experienced a real holiday. He heard them talked about - at school, at the shops, but Arthur hardly even did anything to acknowledge their passing. Yes, he got a few presents on Christmas, a basket full of candy and games on Easter…but the love wasn't there. It was not through affection his father did those things, but through obligation. Through habit, even. It was a miracle Peter even knew about Thanksgiving at all.

"Well," he began. "It's just that you said, last month, we would –"

"I say a lot of things, Peter," Arthur cut him off, reaching again for that tempting and oh-so-beloved bottle. "It's about time you learned that I don't keep my word all the time…no one in this fucked up world does…" _I am teaching the boy a lesson,_ Arthur's impaired mind was convinced_…a lesson he will thank me for later._

"But you said – " Oh Jesus, there was that whining, petulant tone again. Like a caterwauling baby.

"What!" he snapped angrily as he turned to face his son, scotch sloshing from his overfull glass onto his sleeve as it jostled in his hand. "What could you possibly need that I haven't given you?" Toys, books, clothes, an education, food, and a bed to sleep in – what more did one need?

Peter walked around to block his view the fire. _Damn it , get out of the way! _ "…I wanted to spend time with you, Dad."

Arthur finished off another helping of alcohol. "Here's a thought…," what he was saying was barely discernable through his slurring, but it could be heard by one listening carefully enough. "…maybe _I_ don't want to spend time with _you_."

Peter's mouth tightened into a hard line, possibly holding back ten-year-old tears. His eyes narrowed and his fists were clenched at his sides. A line had been crossed, and this time Peter was old enough to realize what those pent-up feelings inside of him meant, and they manifested themselves in the form of a single phrase. "I_ hate _you!"

Peter's eyes were wide, probably shocked at the very notion such a sentence would come flying out of his mouth, and so easily and with such vehemence. The boy straightened, looking his father in his blood-shot eyes, becoming more comfortable with the heavy abhorrence-laden words. "I…I hate you," he said again, without the passion of the first utterance; this one was a test – to see if he could do it again.

"Good," Arthur returned his attention to the fire, seeing past and through the piss-and-vinegar-filled boy that stood in front of him. The words barely touched him – they were only that…vocalizations of the animosity his youngest now held for him. Peter had probably been cultivating these feelings for a very long duration, only to just now realize the full potency of it. This was not the first time this had happened – years ago, a similar thing had occurred between him and Alfred. History was repeating itself.

Later, when he was sober, Arthur would feel bad…maybe. But for now, the scotch formed a protective barrier around his heart and a shield of pure ignorance around his mind.

Peter continued, his newly rebellious nature gathering steam. "I'm…I'm going to run away!" He was shouting now, face pink with fury and feet spread apart in a stance that emanated stubbornness. "Because you're a _bastard_!"

"Who the Hell taught you language like that?" Arthur was almost bemused by the boy's display of frustration. _He'll never run away…words, words, words._

"Why do you care?" Peter cried angrily, accusingly. "You never care about anything I do!" Then he turned and ran out of the room, feet thumping on the floor as he flew up the stairs. Even from where the older gentleman sat, the sound of Peter's bedroom door slamming violently was still audible.

Arthur paused for a second, then downed what scotch remained in his glass. He reached once more for the bottle, the last dregs of its precious contents still remaining. _Best I hurt him sooner than later…I do it to everyone eventually…God damn I _am_ a bastard…_

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

_**Eight days previously, Upstate New York**_

Demyan hated coming here. Never mind the breathtaking landscape, the idyllic forests that wore their November coats of reds, yellows, and oranges, or the quaint little cottages tucked away in the trees, or the big stately manors where the upper-echelons of America resided…what this place was for Demyan was fear. Riding the train up would have been horrible even if it hadn't been an entire day late…_damn trains…feel like I'm a sardine trapped in a tin can…_but unfortunately for the Russian-American, snow had once again put a kink in the much-utilized transportation system. _Just like it did Joise…_

Aw, Hell. Josie. _I'm willing to bet she's pissed as anything…_the way he'd stormed outta there? Man, what a day…he could just picture her now, face all scrunched-up in that antagonized way, arms crossed, just waiting in that hotel room for him to come back, hankering to give him an earful of "what a rotten boyfriend he turned out to be." _...if I still have an ear, when I get back…if I get back at all…_

He was waiting at the station, just a tiny wooden, stage-lookin' thing, really. Demyan looked at the sky, the road, his shoes…anything to keep his mind off the inevitable encounter he was scheduled for later that day. He heard the car long before he saw it. Over the rise it came, a junker no more fit to be a car than a donkey was to be a horse. Demyan could almost feel it, his doom looming ever closer with every foot the vehicle advanced towards him. The car came to a stop. Demyan opened the passenger door, and climbed in.

"You're fuckin' late," he grouched irritably at Alexei, one of the guys he considered a pal, but not exactly a close friend. "I called you forty-fuckin'-five minutes ago."

Alexei shrugged, his weasely little features lookin' as smug as ever. "So, what, now you's short a nickel? Relax, _Printsessa Dyoma_. You're already a day late. 'Ya think forty-five minutes is really gonna matter?"

Demyan didn't answer – just kept his hands busy with the task of clutching his knees so he didn't clock Alexei right-then-and-there. _Maybe I should 'a just came unannounced…_he'd called from the city's train station too, to give warning of his arrival in advance. _"He"_ didn't like getting surprise visitors. _Never mind, callin' beforehand was a good idea…_and besides, they were already speeding much too quickly for an old car going down a dirt road, so it probably wouldn't be a bright idea to knock the driver in question unconscious. Demyan may not have been extremely bright, but he wasn't some idiot that acted purely on instinct and impulse.

Alexei looked over at the hulking man. "Ya doin' okay? You's don't look so good." The smaller man was testing for weakness, not really concerned for the well-being of his comrade. Demyan glared at him. Weakness was not a good thing when it came to Demyan's line of work.

"This God damned, sorry excuse for a car is makin' me sick – fix the fuckin' suspension, will you?"

"Not my call," Alexei explained. "Borrowed this car to so I could pick ya' up - wouldn't let me take a Cadillac."

The rest of the ride passed in tense silence, Demyan trying to disguise his fear as bravado, and failing miserably. As they drew closer to the Family headquarters, his level of anxiety doubled with each passing minute. Demyan wasn't exactly a high-ranking member in the organization – he was easily disposable. And even though the headquarters was supposed to be like a refuge for those of his kind, he felt like he was walking into a hungry lion's den wearing a steak on his head.

"Alright, get outta the car," Alexei said, stopping in front of an ornate pair of wrought-iron gates. Demyan hesitated. "Come on, ya' dumb fuck," the smaller man prodded. "I gotta return this heap of a car before three.

_Ignore that prick…_Demyan got out of the car, slamming its door as hard as he could – which was pretty damn hard.

"Asshole!" Alexei yelled out of the window as he drove away. "What if ya' dented it?"

"Then I hope they break your greasy little head and snap your legs in a half!" Demyan shouted back, shaking his head in disgust. He walked through the open gates, dread accumulating in his stomach and weighing there, like a lead ball that would hopefully keep him from going any further. The manor wasn't unpleasant to look at, no. With its stone exterior, tall skinny windows, and sloping roof it looked like a tribute to one of them French-things. _What is it Josie calls 'em…chateaus? _But it wasn't what was outside of the mansion that was the problem – it was what lay in its depths.

He approached the front door, knocking three times._ Maybe…maybe they won't answer the door?_ But his hopes proved futile, as his knocks were soon answered. The door swung open, revealing a guy probably a few years younger than Demyan – a new recruit by the looks of him; most likely stuck on headquarters defense duty. The kid looked haggard and scared shitless.

"Demyan Demidov," he supplied shortly.

"You here to speak to the _Pakhan_?"

"No. I'm here for…someone else."

The other guy nodded in grim understanding as he pointed up the stairs. "Then you're late - go on up."

_Jesus Christ, does EVREYONE know I'm late?_ Demyan walked over the threshold, shivering in the cold interior of the house. He trudged up the marble covered stairs, regretting each and every step he took with every fiber of his being. He had never thought this day would come – and the notion of bringing up that horrible occurrence…Demyan shook his head. _Stay focused…_he supposed he should be lucky he wasn't already dead. _I was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time…and too righteous for my own good…_

He was there. A door, made of something that looked like oak and a brass doorknob, stood before him like the gates of Hell. Doing his best not to shake – _I am a man, God dammit, a full grown man! I can do this_ – as he raised his hand to knock. All it took was once – one time for his knuckles to hit the wood, before he was summoned.

"Come in."

Demyan turned the knob, his palm slipping and sliding against the metal as they were covered in a thin film of nerve-induced sweat. He entered the study, closing the door behind him and cutting off the bright light from the hallway. The shades were half-way drawn, a slice of illumination filtering through the dark curtains, but doing little to cut away the inky black that filled the rest of the room. It was like a band of unnatural hope, suffocating in a sea of misery; preyed upon by the darkness. And on the window sill, a single, half-alive-looking sunflower wilted in a crystal vase. It was a completely random thing, out of place in this kind of atmosphere. But every single time Demyan had entered the room, it had been there. Whether it was constantly being replaced or was the same one he had no way of knowing. It was just always there, in all its perverse and oddly-intimidating glory.

"Demyan," the voice practically cooed, much too high-pitched and childish to belong to its owner. "What brings you here? I thought you were still in the city with your lady-friend, yes?"

He almost completely lost his composure as the voice wrapped it's tendrils around his ears, filling his brain and infecting his tentative nerve. "I was, but I..."

"_Yes_?" the voice said expectantly – but that expectation was not to be mistaken for patience; no, just the opposite. That was something Demyan had learned by both example and by experience. _Shit, shit, shit! Hold it together._

"I know where she is!' Demyan finally got the courage to blurt out. _There…now he knows…but what will he do to me?_ Now that Demyan had delivered this news, what would his fate be? Would it be his long promised price?

Silence permeated the room, no response of any kind was audible or visible from the shadowy image of a desk and a figure, both tucked away in the dim corner of the study. And that silence made Demyan more nervous than anything. _Maybe he didn't hear me._

"I know –" he began again.

"I head what you said," the voice interrupted. "You promised me a long time ago you would fix what you did wrong, yes?"

"Yes," Demyan answered, anxiously to have the story told. "See, my girlfriend is engaged to this guy –"

"When I want details, I will ask for them," the voice said chidingly, like a mother scolding a child. Almost cheerfully. "You will go and get her."

Demyan was partially relieved – it seemed he was going to live to see another day after all. "You mean a kidnapping? I could have her back here by –"

"Not yet."

_What? He has me on the lookout for this dame for years and then he tells me to wait? _Demyan felt a question forming on his tongue, and it slipped between his lips before he could stop it.

"Why? Why wait when we know where she is?" This elicited soft laughter from across the room, laughter that sounded cheerful but nevertheless still managed to raise all the hairs on the back of the hulking man's neck.

"Demyan…," there was the sound of a chair sliding across a rug as _"He"_ stood up and began taking leisurely steps, until _"He"_ was standing just inside the shelter that the darkness offered before being exposed by the light shining through the window. "…who is your source?"

"My…my girlfriend."

"Listen to me carefully – I want you to go scope this out. See if it is indeed her, and then report back to me…yes?"

Demyan swallowed, that leaden ball in his gut not getting any lighter. In fact, with the deliverance of these latest instructions, it may as well have gotten heavier.

"…I will."

"Good choice. Go, now." Demyan did as told immediately, turning to depart, then waltzing across the room with a quickness he hoped was perceived as haste to complete his new mission. But just as he was about to open the door, his name was called again.

"Oh, and Demyan…"

_Oh Christ, what now?_ He reluctantly turned, anticipating a loaded gun pointed at his head…_or worse…_

_"He"_ stepped into the light, his towering figure and generally pleasant-looking features being thrown into relief. That is, his features would have been pleasant, ruggedly-handsome even, if it weren't for the scar. It started way up in his ash-blonde hairline, cutting diagonally across one now-milky-looking-and-blinded eye, marring the very edge of his nose, and from there twisting one corner of his mouth down into a permanent frown and ending at his chin. His other eye was still bright, the other corner of his mouth still able to turn up in a gentle smile.

Demyan just about shit himself, as humiliating as that would have been. _"He" _spoke.

"If you mess this up for me a second time,"_ "He"_ had his hands clasped in front of him, like a well-behaved schoolboy. "…I promise you that you will not live to commit a third. I am understood, yes?"

Demyan almost choked on his tongue trying to formulate a response. "Y-yes, _Gospodin_ Ivan… _Gospodin _Ivan Braginski, sir!"

"Good!" Ivan said happily, as if congratulating Demyan on some type of commendable accomplishment. "_Now_…you may go."

And Demyan left. In fact, he ran. He ran all the way to the train station, regardless of the distance. But now, instead of heading to some other destination in New York, he would be heading to Virginia. But first, he needed to pay a visit to Josie and get more details.

**(A/N)** Sorry for the delay! I am alive. Life was busy last weekend (pumpkin carving, homework, cousins, blargh) and then this week was filled with school and stuff. 14,000 + words! Wow, biggest chapter yet! Just something I realized - do you realize that if every single person who read this story over the past month (October!) had reviewed, I'd have over 1,000 of them? CRA~ZAY! D: Let me just say, thanks so far for all the feedback/faves and stuff :) stuff like that is what keeps me motivated.

IVAN IS HERE. We're going to examine why he is the way he is…in a flashback chapter! DUN DUN DUN DUNNNN…also, what happened between Mattie and Arthur and Alfred :) Possibly a Tiesa explanation, too, but I'm not sure yet. That's probably what the next chapter's going to be, just a heads up! And Tiesa…is that turkey made of lead? Seriously, woman… :I

The NFL was in it's infancy in 1925; and as you know, TV didn't exist back then (OH GODZ) so that's why Alfred listens to the game on the radio ^_^ I've always thought of Liet as having this iron will…he/she's just a really nice person :) BUT DON'T YOU TRY TO BULLSHIT HER/HIM, NUH-UH. And to be fair, Feliks doesn't wear girl clothes all the time, so why should fem!Feliks wear boy clothes all the time? Don't hate Ivan…he is the way he is for a reason…have you noticed that Tiesa doesn't really like getting touched? There's a reason for that, too (look up hapnophobia). Don't kill me for Joseph. He doesn't make another appearance, I swear. I just needed someone to be fem!Feliks's date ;A; **Dyoma** = Russian nickname for Demyan…man, they really like nicknames…pretty cool :) **Printsessa **= princess **Gospodin **= mister

So I'm just gonna let fem!Feliks keep the first/last name. I can see him/her being really stubborn about it, too…too many people have changed their surnames :C In WWI + WWII, the German families in America changed their names (shame that they would feel the need to do so). My own family shortened our last name in the sixties, during the Cold War (it sounded _very_ Russian…but it's Polish. Go figure). Oh well. Now we sound like we're Muslim or something C: haha, how's THAT for irony? Not that there's anything wrong with that, I've just gotten some odd looks before during roll call ~_~ All I'm saying is that I think it's a shame that we live in a society where people feel pressured to ignore their cultural heritage because of a couple 'a jackasses…okay mini-rant over. I love Fall…have you ever seen a twenty-five pound turkey/smashed your thumb with one? It's gigantic/hurts like a mother. We have to get one every year to feed my family and relatives on Thanksgiving.

~ V.o.t.s. :3

P.S. While writing this, I was listening to "Zombie" by the Cranberries and "Free Bird" by Lynrd Skynyrd over and over and over…it doesn't really have anything to do with the story, but if you want to listen to some kick-$$ songs… :D

Go to the following internet address to give you an idea of what Tiesa's necklace looks like – but if you wanna stick with your mental image, that's fine by me!

.com/imgres?q=amber+pendant&hl=en&gbv=2&biw=1366&bih=642&tbm=isch&tbnid=ybd6nOqS94ivMM:&imgrefurl=.&docid=fQU4jZOAHu7J5M&imgurl=.com/USERIMAGES/AMBER%&w=480&h=480&ei=XG-_TraOGuP10gHOgry2BA&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=655&vpy=205&dur=842&hovh=225&hovw=225&tx=123&ty=146&sig=101451181218790578069&page=5&tbnh=120&tbnw=111&start=92&ndsp=28&ved=1t:429,r:14,s:92


	9. Letters and Memories: Two

**Lessons in Housekeeping** – Letters and Memories: Two

**DISCLAIMER: **Hetalia nėra mano nuosavybė! (that's "Hetalia is not my property" in Lithuanian…I think?) I also **DO NOT OWN **Peter Rabbit…that belongs to Beatrix Potter.

**(A/N)** 'Kay, here's another L + M chapter :) You remember how the last one worked, right? Well, instead of a letter, this one's mostly memories. You get the drift ;)

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

_**August, 1909 – the Virginia Coastline**_

"Mattie, you're so slow!" Alfred called, racing down the beach just a few feet from where the ocean met the shore, feeling the tiny granules of sand shift beneath his bare feet as the sea-born wind whipped at his hair and clothes. "Sllloooo~ooww!" he taunted, and not for the first time that day.

"…am...," Matthieu stumbled along behind him, winded and exhausted by the act of chasing after his brother, falling for the baited words. "…am _NOT_!"

Alfred slowed, slightly breathless himself. The other boy came awkwardly to a stop not too far back. "No," he panted, egging on Matthieu some more. "You pretty much are..." Alfred, seized in a fit of mischief, dug a half-buried shell out of the ground with his fingers and proceeded to toss it at his brother's head. "Catch!"

The projectile made contact with the other boy's eyebrow. "OW!" Matthieu cried, mostly out of annoyance than actual pain. Alfred stuck out his tongue in triumph, eyes closed and hands making mocking moose-ears; Matthieu got a little rambunctious himself and scooped up and entire fistful of sand. Alfred didn't even see it coming (mostly because he was too busy reveling in his own short-lived victory…and his eyes were closed).

"Ugh!" He sputtered, the practically miniscule rocks working themselves into his hair, up his nose when he breathed in, and chafing the soft skin under his clothes he tried to shake and brush it off. Alfred caught a few glimpses of Matthew, clutching his sides and laughing hysterically, as he rubbed at his eyes attempting to remove the few grains of sand that had somehow become stuck inside his lids. _I'll show him! _He thought determinedly, not willing to go down so easily – not when he'd led Matthieu on such a long chase! No, the other boy would not taste the salvation of winning today.

"You - !" he launched himself at Matthieu, catching the still laughing boy completely off-guard and tackling him to the ground. There in the surf, they scuffled – punches were thrown, hair yanked, shins and knees knocked about – not caring on bit that the soggy, coarse sand now slathered their bodies, or that the cold upper New England ocean licked their toes. The tussle was as fun as it was a rite of passage – one of those seemingly required instances of sibling, brother, and childhood.

They carried on like this for a while, laughing when they were enjoying themselves and crying out angrily when someone carried it a little too far – it was like the check-and-balance system of twins. Then, a faint call was carried down the beach by the breeze – it was just barely audible over the gentle roar of the water and the sounds of their play-fighting.

"Mommy!" Alfred shouted in recognition, leaping to his feet and then pulling Matthieu rather roughly to his own. "She's calling us – let's go!" The two of them took off towards the sound of their mother's voice, Alfred again taking the lead and enjoying every moment of it. Ignoring his brothers antagonized cries of "Wait, Alfred, _wait_!" he plowed on ahead, every bit as free and unhindered looking as he felt. _I love the ocean!_

It was not long before they reached the beachfront residence they spent most of their summers in. Five-hundred yards from the water, with its pastel colored siding and white trim, it looked every bit the fairytale vacation house (well, more like mini-mansion, but that's beside the point). Surrounded by nothing but sea grasses that whispered in the wind and small dunes of sand, the place looked as if it had been intended to be there by none other than God himself. And what a paradise it was; an escape from the sterility of civilization for the family of four, an oasis of simplicity.

Momma was still standing on the back porch, leaning against the railing and waiting for her children to return. Alfred almost charged up the steps, but Matthieu just managed to grab the back of his sopping-wet shirt just in time._ Oh yeah…_Alfred often found it easy to forget how his parents (one certain father, in particular) felt about tracking dirt into the house…_thanks, Mattie._

"_Oui_, Momma?" Matthieu inquired at the exact same time Alfred spoke up and said, "What is it, Mommy?"

The woman came down off the porch to join them, ruffling both of their hair and not caring in the least she was coating her hands with sand, sea-water, and who-knows-what-else.

"_Temps pour le dîner, les garçons_," she sang. Sometimes the woman used words they didn't quite understand – Alfred, at least. Matthieu on the other hand seemed to have quite a good grasp on the odd but smooth-sounding tongue. "Did my boys have fun on the beach today?"

Matthieu wasted no time in pouting and pointing an accusing finger at his brother. "Momma, _il a jeta du sable au ma visage_!"

Alfred, for one, was dumb-struck – he understood more of the melodic language than he thought he did; he just didn't speak it. _A brother NEVER tattles on his own blood!_ "I did _not_ throw sand at his face!" he cried in protest, but then his feelings of betrayal faded a little and he scuffed the ground with his bare foot. "…I threw a shell," he admitted begrudgingly. _No use lying – mommy always figures things out in the end, anyway._

"A teeny one!" he quickly added, noting the amusedly disapproving arch of his mother's fair eyebrows. But she just smiled and shook her head. "…and Mattie was the one who threw sand, mommy! Not me!"

"My little rascals," she sighed, kneeling down so she could give his tummy a quick tickle. "Mommy…Mommy, stop!" he giggled, squirming and twisting away from her treacherously titillating fingertips. She hooked an arm around him to pull the boy close, then turned to Matthieu and administered a similar treatment – Matthieu couldn't have kept the scowl on his face even if he'd tried.

"Now," she chided firmly but not harshly, keeping a steady mother's-grip on both of the boys' shoulders. "What do you both need to say to each other, hm? Alfred, Matthieu?"

The two brothers exchanged a subversive look, one corresponding thought shared between them – _She's not making us do this AGAIN, is she?_ The whole concept of apologizing was needed to survive in the Kirkland household, they knew, but neither boy really cherished the idea of admitting their faults. Like all typical children, they just _knew_ they were right. Why did they have to apologize if their actions were completely justifiable?

"I'm waiting."

Alfred would have crossed his arms in defiance were he able. But instead he had to settle with raising his chin, sticking out his little chest, full of impudence and adamancy – there was no way he was going to apologize to Matthieu…first, at least. That would be admitting weakness, admitting defeat. Weak Alfred was not, defeat he did not aim to achieve. _I can wait him out…_the other boy usually caved relatively quickly.

But even Matthieu looked a little more resolute than usual – albeit, in a more subtle way than Alfred's bold show of bravado. There was a reason one brother was always called "the good one," and the other, well…

The three-way showdown ended before it even really got started (because whether the twins realized it or not, their mother was as much a part of the confrontation as they were; if they couldn't put aside their differences, she would play the unenviable role of disciplinarian) with the overdue arrival of their father.

"What's all this about…?" he asked amicably as he appeared in the doorway, attention focused on the thrice-read, crinkled and torn newspaper in his hands. He looked up, taking in the sight and current state of his children, of his wife being peace-maker. But above all the one thing he noticed was the copious amounts of sand, dirt, and general grime that covered Alfred and Matthieu head-to-foot. The man's eyes widened, "Holy mother of –"

Their mother stood up and planted a soft (but a bit too long, in Alfred's opinion) kiss on his lips before he could say another word. "Shhh…," she spoke quietly upon breaking away, a half-hearted attempt to keep the conversation from reaching the children's ears – it didn't work. "Save that kind of language for bedtime, _mon cher_."

Alfred blanched at his parent's brief intimacy – why would they want to get so close to each other, especially since they were a boy and a girl? He couldn't imagine going up to the little girl whose parents rented the beach property nearest them, and giving _her_ a kiss! _I bet I'd catch a disease…_and one look at Matthieu's face told Alfred that his twin was thinking and feeling the exact same thing.

"_Blech_!," he vocalized his disgust. "Can't you go do that somewhere else?" Matthieu nodded in fervent agreement, nose scrunched and brows furrowed in obvious discomfort. Alfred's own visage bore no such expression, but his stomach squirmed to compensate. _It's just so gross…why do they have to do that with us around?_ And besides, why would they want to in the first place? What on God's green Earth was the appeal?

His father disentangles himself from their mother's arms rather reluctantly. He too knelt down to Alfred's level, looking his son straight in the eyes. "Now listen here young man," he said, playfully and with a sparkle of something close to mischief in his gaze; he was still a little high on the impromptu affection bestowed upon him by his wife. Alfred raised a questioning eyebrow – _what's he planning to do?_ His unspoken question was answered shortly after as he felt his father's big, strong hands encircle his midriff and lift him up into the air, spinning around in a quick, tight circle.

Alfred laughed, utterly enthused by the unexpected treat. "I am your father," the older man continued his mock-lecture, ceasing to spin and holding his son close to his chest – Alfred was still small enough that such a feat was achievable. "…and I make the rules around here – I say that I can kiss your mother whenever I please…"

Alfred grinned – his main objective had been achieved, and with a bonus to boot. _They stopped being gross, and Daddy even gave me an air-plane ride!_ "Okay," he ceded as his father set him down on the porch. It was only then that the man noticed the obscene amounts of sand and beach-gunk now covering the insides of his sleeved-clad arms and all down his front.

"Aw, damn…," their father began rubbing and brushing at the offending spots of grime. Alfred felt his own satisfied smile falter.

"Daddy?" _Did I do something wrong?_

Their mother sighed, rolling her eyes. "Well, _mon cher_," she flipped her hair back with one hand, the other placed pertly on her hip. "What do you expect to happen when you pick him up and he's covered in sand? You're not impermeable to dirt, _amour_."

That tone was creeping into her voice again, that slightly condescending, depreciating timbre that either brought Alfred and Matthieu frantically running or wallowing in shame. It had no such effect on their father – something that was a constant source of confusion to the two boys. _Maybe…_Alfred had reasoned one day_…maybe it's because he's got a scary look?_ It made sense that a frightening voice could be combated with an intimidating face, and their father had both.

Alfred and Matthieu caught the briefest glimpse of them as their father dejectedly examined his now ruined shirt. "I know that," he responded, words harder than they were meant to be, and unforgivably harsh to the ears of a seven-year-old. "I'm going inside to wash up," the man turned and retreated into the squeaky-clean haven of the house's interior. Their mother watched him go, lips pressed into a firm line, eyes narrowed. Once he was gone, she shook her head and pointed to the water pump about twenty or so meters in the distance. "Go clean yourselves over there, _garçons_," she was smiling now, mostly for her sons' benefit "…and be quick! I didn't spend two hours making a meal just for it to go cold."

"Alright, Mommy – we'll be quick!" Alfred brushed off the ill-feelings still lingering from the small-scale schism which he had just watched open up between his parents. He wasted no time in jumping down the three use-worn wooden steps that separated the porch from the beach, running towards the little well and its accompanying pump.

"_Oui! Très, très rapide_!" Matthieu echoed before sprinting off to join his brother, kicking up dirt and sand as he tread clumsily along his way.

All call was issued from inside the house, but only audible for their mother's ears. "Don't tell them to do that, Francine – they'll catch pneumonia for sure."

She waved her hand dismissively, turning to the still open doorway and enunciating clearly, almost mockingly – "Oh, _mon cher_," she began wistfully, then turned bitingly blunt. "…stop being such an idiot. Let them have some fun for once; a little spray with some cold water is not going to kill them."

The two boys drew further and further away, oblivious to the small-scale war of parental-will taking place not fifteen feet behind them. Alfred turned, a mischievous grin on his face. "Hey Mattie," he could see already that his brother was incensed, just from those two words. "…race ya'!" Matthieu tried to catch up, but needless to say his attempt was futile at best. They may have been twins, but unlike Alfred, Matthieu had never been very athletic.

Alfred got there first, standing on the very tips of his toes so he could get a good grip on the pump's lever. It was a big old thing, it was iron cast and just it _looked_ heavy. Matthieu came pounding up, breathless and red faced – it was really a miracle he'd lasted throughout the entire day. The pump's faucet was just high enough off the ground that it just cleared his brother's shoulder – and it was when the other boy passed underneath it that Alfred was struck by a moment of seven-year-old ingenuity.

_This'll get him, for sure!_ Alfred threw all of his weight onto the lever, pushing it down and beckoning a steady stream of freshwater form its unseen source. With a gurgle of air and water, and the groan of old an old iron pipe, Matthieu promptly found himself half-drenched in smelly, rusty well water.

"HEY!" he cried indignantly, wiping a few stray drops from his face.

"Oh," Alfred admonished, wiping the grime from the lever off on his already filthy pants. "Stop being such a baby. Now, do me!"

Matthieu's bottom lip quivered, but he tried to fight it. "I'm _not _a baby…" he sat down on the ground, legs splayed and shoulders slumped. There were even a couple sniffles thrown into the pitiable show of defeat.

_Aw, uh-oh…_Alfred, being a child perfectly capable of unmeaning cruelty, was also capable of great sympathy. He couldn't deny he felt a guilty weight tugging at his chest, forcing him to acknowledge he hadn't been the best brother that day. _Now I've done it – I've gone too far!_

He walked over and plopped himself onto the grass and sandy-dirt, right next to other boy. "Mattie, what's the matter?" he asked, placing a comforting arm around Matthieu's shoulders. Matthieu shrugged away, turning to face Alfred.

"Stop calling me that!" he angrily snapped, fists clenched with frustration. "I'm not a baby! I'm just as old as you are!"

Alfred tried again to rectify the situation. "Come on, you know I only say that because –" but his brother wouldn't let him finish.

"You've been mean to me all day," Matthieu continued, not ready to accept any apology or explanation until he'd said what he had to say.

"Matt –"

"Meanie!" Matthieu crossed his arms angrily, turning away from his twin.

"Mattie…"

"Matthieu," his brother corrected him.

"Matthew," Alfred tried, using the variant of the boy's name that their father always did.

"_Matthieu_!"

Alfred sighed. "Fine, '_Matthieu_'...I'm really, really sorry."

"No you're not."

Alfred was adamant on the validity of his regret. "Sure I am!" he protested his sincerity. "I only mess with you because you make it so easy!"

"...that doesn't make me feel better."

Alfred responded by laying his arm around Matthieu once more – this time, it wasn't shrugged off. "Come on...we're brothers!" he spoke earnestly and warmly. "You know I love you, Mattie!"

Matthieu's shoulders lost their angered stiffness as he slowly turned to face the other boy. "I love you too..." he admitted, forgiving his brother but in the begrudging way siblings usually do. Then a roguish note crept into his voice, matching his face perfectly. "…_Al_!"

Alfred was utterly stunned. It was his own tactic turned against him! _I'll teach him not to call me "Al"! _But before he could think of an appropriate way to respond to the subtle slight, their mother's ariose voice was once again carried to their ears by the ocean breeze.

"_Garçons_! _Garçons_, come in - dinner is getting cold!"

He let his anger dissipate, looking to Matthieu. "Before we go, can you wash me off?"

"Sure," Matthieu stood and took ahold of the lever as Alfred positioned himself underneath the faucet.

"Just a little bit," he instructed. "Not too fast –" he was interrupted by a stream of foul water, splashing against his shoulder and drenching everything from his neck down.

"Oops…," Matthieu couldn't suppress a satisfied giggle. "_Je_ _suis_ _désolé_."

Alfred shook off the excess moisture, fixing his brother with a mild glare. "…Good enough," he declared, after inspecting both his clothes and Matthieu's. They weren't completely clean, but it would be good enough to sit through dinner, at least.

"Let's go eat!"

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

The two didn't pass inspection – but Alfred had to admit, it felt much better sitting through dinner in clean clothes instead of the dirty, soggy ones. _Yes!_ He thought happily, clambering up into a dining chair right in-between his father and his brother. _We're having_ _bœuf en daube!_

They all dug into their meals. As per usual, his parents' conversation dominated the table, until his mother asked them as to what the twins wanted to do the following day.

Matthieu set down his knife, laying it rather clumsily across his fork; there was the sharp clatter of metal on porcelain. "Daddy, can you take us fishing tomorrow? In the boat?"

_Fishing! That sounds like fun._ "Yeash," Alfred mumbled. "Fischinng!"

"Alfred, don't talk with your mouth full," his mother softly chided. "It's unbecoming, _petit cher_."

Their father cleared his throat, setting down his own silverware and taking a sip of that dark red liquid called wine – _Mommy says I can't have that until I'm older…_

"We'll see...," he answered cryptically, in a tone Alfred took to mean "probably not." But just as his heart began to sink, their mother stepped in.

"_Oui_, of course you would," she shot the man a meaningful look, one the children were too young yet to decipher. A small, playful smile was on her lips. "…because if you do, I'd be able to rest for the day…I might even have a special treat ready for you, come after dinner…"

The small smile was now mirrored on their father's face as he nodded in understanding. Matthieu scrunched up his nose, screwing his eyebrows in confusion. "What kind of treat?"

"_Gâteau_," she answered without missing a beat, but still maintaining eye contact with her husband across the table.

"Cake?" Alfred inquired further, excitedly. "What kind?"

Matthieu contributed to the barrage of questions. "Can we have some tonight, Momma? _S'il vous plaît_?"

"_Non_."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

The family had eaten early, sometime around five o'clock; so, given the fact it was summer, it was still fairly light out about six-thirty. The boys were sitting on the rug in the living room, enjoying the last few rays of natural light that were filtering in through the weather-beaten windows. Matthieu was entertaining himself with his stuffed – and very much beloved – white bear. "A polar bear" their parents had said when he's received it. Thing toy never left his side when he was indoors. Alfred on the other hand was lying on the floor and fingering through a picture book, looking at the illustrations more than the words, piecing the story together from his prior knowledge paired with the helpful caricatures.

"P…Peter…ribbit…," he squinted, attempting to make sense of the letters written in a large, bold print across the bottom of the page. "…and…Mister….Ma-MaCreegar…"

"Peter Rabbit and Mister McGregor," Matthieu corrected off-handedly, still engrossed in the special little world he shared with his favorite polar animal.

Alfred frowned, closing the book with a quiet _shup!_ and tossing it so it landed right next to his brother's knee. "Show off…," he muttered under his breath. _Thinks he's so smart…_

Now it was Matthieu's turn to frown. "I'm not a show off. Kuma just told me, that's all."

Alfred responded by shifting into a sitting-up position, stretching. "Kuma doesn't know nothin' about nothin'," he told the other boy confidently. _No way I'm getting shown up by a stupid bear._

Matthieu's eyes widened as he clutched the bear tightly to his chest. "Don't say that!"

He now knew this was getting on his brother's nerves – so Alfred took it, and he ran with it. "Why? He's a stuffed animal," he waved his hand as if he were an expert on the subject. "He doesn't have any brains! Kuma can't understand human-speak."

Matthieu shook his head violently, tightening his grip on the cherished toy even further. "Take it back! He's _not_ a stuffed animal, he's a _real_ bear!"

Alfred rolled his eyes, coupling it with a dramatic sigh. He stuck his arms into the in air in an "It's hopeless" kind of motion. "Whatever you say, Mattie..."

The other boy scowled, sticking Kuma under one arm as he snatched up the book by his leg and held it up for his brother to see. "What's this say, _Al_? Come on, what's it say?"

"Stop it," Alfred warned.

Matthew raised his eyebrows in mock-surprise. "You can't read it? But it's _so_ easy!" He flipped open to a random page, beginning to read in a clear and confident voice. "_Don't go into Mr. McGregor's garden: your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor._"

"_Mmrahhhh_!" Alfred gave a war cry, launching himself at his brother who quickly dropped the book and his bear to leap out of the way.

"I'm gonna get you!" he yelled as Matthieu ran out of the room, laughing and slipping on hardwood floor slightly as he went. Alfred made after him with great haste – he'd taken his socks off, so he didn't have the disadvantage of sliding haplessly around corners and such. The quest for vengeance quickly became one of play. It took two revolutions of the house for their mother to notice their break-necked pace game of chase.

"Slow down, boys!" she called from her spot in the kitchen – cleaning up the mess from dinner, of course. The family never brought the help with them when they went on holiday. They liked to do all their washing and cooking for themselves during that time, ironically enough.

Three more hyperactive and happily shriek-filled revolutions later, the inevitable occurred. Matthieu saw it first, trying to dodge; but it was no use. Despite the boy's best efforts he was soon in his father's firm grasp and Alfred followed soon after, crashing into the two of them at full speed.

_Ah…this isn't good._ Alfred had the good sense not to squirm. He blinked once or twice, still in a slight state of shock at the impact of having run into his father and brother. Slowly, he looked up. His father was not happy.

"Matthew! Alfred!" he scolded, but sans that soft-around-the-edges quality their mother seemed to have whenever she carried out similar actions. "You know you're not allowed to run in the house."

Alfred hung his head. "Sorry, Daddy..."

Matthieu, once again, was the one to point the finger of blame. "Alfred started it!"

Alfred whipped his gaze towards the other boy. "I DID NOT!" It was completely unfair. _I didn't start it, he _knows_ I didn't!_ _Lies, lies!_

"I don't care _who_ started it," the man let out an exasperated breath, gathering both children into his arms and carrying them towards the back door. "…take it outside, the both of you."

"But," Matthieu squeaked. "…but it's dark out there!" Alfred covered a derisive laugh with a phony sounding cough. _It's his fault, and now we're BOTH getting stuck outside like dogs…stupid Matthieu._

The man opened the back door, dumping his sons rather unceremoniously onto the porch. The wood creaked quietly under the weight of two tiny bodies. "Not yet," he said, directing their attention to the rather bloody-looking sunset. "See? The sun is still up."

"But-!" Matthieu began again; Alfred just stood with his arms crossed and brow furrowed with the frustration of being falsely accused.

"You'll be alright for a few minutes," their father cut the boy off. "I just don't want you running around the house," he prepared the close the door. "…and for the love of all things holy – _don't_ get dirty again!" And then the door was closed for good, eliminating the thin crack of light that had been shining from the doorway. All they had left now to illuminate their way was the dying sun.

"This is all your fault," Alfred grumbled.

"Nuh-uh!" Matthieu was quick to retaliate. "It's _your_ fault…_mange de la merde, abruti__**…**_"

Alfred gasped at the explanative, but quickly realized he could use this to his advantage. Pointing a finger, he pestered, "I'm telling Mommy you called me a bad name!"

Matthieu's face lost its pallor as he was reduced to a begging mess of a boy within mere seconds. "No, don't tell Momma!" he hands were clasped, attempting to appeal to his twin's very fickle better nature. "_S'il vous plaît_!"

"…fine," he ceded, deciding the best sort of revenge today would be one that didn't include tattling – Alfred hated to do it, even if Matthieu deserved it. It made him feel all slimy inside… "But only if I get to call _you_ something."

Matthieu straightened his relief evident in his posture and on his face. "Okay."

Alfred took a few seconds to come up with an appropriate jab. Clearing his throat, he said, "You, _Matthew_, are an asshole." He threw in the less-favored form of his brother's name as an afterthought, to add extra bite. _That got him!_

The other boy rolled his eyes. "Done?"

Another few moments passed as Alfred racked his brain for a forbidden word he'd picked up from conversations between his parents. "…_and_ a prick." Satisfied, he grinned from ear to ear, arms crossed, triumphantly now, across his chest. He shivered slightly in the breeze – it was summer, but it was also practically nighttime. _I don't really want to be standing around here the entire evening, freezing my butt off and stuff._

"It's boring here," he addressed his brother. "I'm going to walk down the beach." He walked confidently away, knowing he'd soon hear the sound of protest behind him. In short, he was right.

"Alfred!" Matthieu cried, running after him. "We can't get too far away from home when it's not daytime…"

"What, you chicken?" Alfred taunted, stopping and turning. "You know Daddy's not gonna let us in anytime soon. Why stand around the door like a couple a' idiots when we can go have some fun?"

"Well, I'm not going," Matthieu said resolutely, stopping in his tracks.

Alfred shrugged. "Suit yourself," he continued on his merry way.

"Alfred, wait!" Matthieu once again chased after his brother. "Don't leave me all alone."

So, the two of them advanced down the beach, eventually settling at spot about three-hundred feet from their house. It _was_ dark after all. And even though Alfred would rather have his teeth pulled than admit it, he wanted to keep the warm and friendly lights shining from the windows in his sight at all times. Matthieu sat on the ground, sticking close to his brother, and drew swirling designs in the sand with a small stick of driftwood. Alfred was scavenging for rocks and pebbles, throwing them away into the crashing void of the ocean as soon as he found one.

He grew tired of this activity after about ten minutes, so he turned to the only other form of entertainment he knew was in the vicinity – teasing his brother. "Hey, Matthieu," he called.

The other didn't boy look up from his sandy art-work as he answered. "What?"

He'd fallen into the trap! Alfred put on his most assuming stance, his most tantalizing tone. "I bet you can't make it farther into the water than I can throw a rock."

It was then that Matthieu ripped his attention away from the stick and the sand swirls to counter Alfred's challenge. "I bet I can," he answered easily, calmly.

"You wanna test it out?" Alfred asked, knowing all too well the response Matthieu was likely to give. _But I can still try, right?_

Matthieu's eyes were once again directed to his impromptu project. "Daddy says we're not supposed to go into the ocean at nighttime - there's tip tides and shellyfish and darks."

"You mean _rip_ tides, _jelly_fish, and _sharks_," Alfred corrected. _And you think you're so great just because you can read!_ "Mommy and Daddy only tell us those things to keep us from having fun, stupid."

The boy paused in his work as he seemed to consider this new information. "Really?"

"Yup!" Alfred nodded even though his brother wasn't looking at him. "I'm positive." And he really was. The child had never seen any of the fabled dangers of the ocean – and if you couldn't see or touch something, did it really exist? He had convinced himself that his parents were simply trying to sabotage his efforts to have a good time, which they had a history of doing. _Like when I tried to parachute with an umbrella? That would have been so awesome!_

Matthieu didn't share Alfred's enthusiasm. He eyed the rolling waves with a wary gaze. "I dunno, Alfred…maybe we should just go back home."

"Chicken...," Alfred began to jest. "Chicken, chicken, chicken!"

Matthieu hauled himself to his feet, staring down his sibling with his fingers taut with rage at his side – he'd been called a "baby" and a "chicken" fifty times too many that day, and he was just about ready to let his anger – simmering on a back burner all afternoon – boil over into something real and irrational.

"I am _not_!"

Alfred didn't relent, "Mattie Kirkland is a cold-blooded chicken-coward baby!" He pranced around on the sand, feet skipping over the ground, getting much too into the game of annoying his brother.

"That's not true!"

Pausing in his irksome dance, Alfred placed his hands on his hips, lifting his chin imperiously. "Then prove it." _Look at how red his face is!_

Matthieu - usually the thinker, the naysayer, the second guesser - screamed, "I WILL!" and with his fists still clenched, stormed off into the water, battling waves as he drew further and further from shore. Alfred stood on the bank, watching with his mouth hanging open almost comically in awe. This was the antithesis of what he had anticipated…_I didn't think he'd actually do it!_

"Way to go, Matt!" he yelled, pumping a fist into the air. He laughed with amusement, watching his brother win the war of the waves and advance further into the expanse of dark blue. _Wait…now…now it's too far._ Matthieu couldn't swim, and neither could Alfred. The smile slipped off his face, just a little bit. A strange knot of something unidentifiable had formed in his chest.

Cupping his hands around his mouth so his brother could hear him, Alfred called, "Matt, come back! You're going too far!" But still the other boy paddled and struggled on. Either he didn't hear him, or he didn't care. A particularly strong rush of seawater almost knocked Matthieu off his feet, and Alfred counted the seconds nervously until he could see the boy's head again.

"MATT! COME BACK!" he said, even louder this time. The strange feeling in his chest was now recognizable as unease – Alfred didn't like this situation. His brother was too far away to hear or even _see_ now.

Matthieu somehow managed to turn around, facing his brother and making himself audible over the sound of the ocean. "I AM NOT A CHICKEN!"

"Yeah, I can see that!" he yelled as loudly as he could. "Now, come back!"

"Okay!"

Alfred felt the brief euphoria of a child's relief. _He's coming back…it's all good, now, it's all good._ But for what reason he anxious of Matthieu being so far out in the water, Alfred was unsure. _I guess I'm being weird…but it doesn't matter, because he's coming back!_

But the boy's reprieve from his rattled nerves was short-lived –Matthieu wasn't getting any closer. In fact, it almost seemed as if he was moving further away…_but that's impossible!_

"Matthieu, come over here!"

The reply came, frightened sounding and muted through crashing of the surf. "I can't!"

That feeling was back, but this time instead of localizing itself in just one part of Alfred's body, it was everywhere; every fiber of his being was consumed with a primitive, paralyzing fear. "What do you mean _can't_?"

"I can't Alfred!" Matthieu's voice was rising in pitch, become borderline hysteric. "I can't! _Aidez-moi_! HELP ME!"

Alfred's thoughts spun wildly. He needed to get someone…Matthieu didn't know how to swim, and neither did he. The only people nearby who could get the boy out of the water were…

"I'm going to get Mommy and Daddy!" he tried to assure his brother, turning and running towards the house that was almost hidden in the dark. "Stay right there!"

Alfred ran faster that night than he ever had in his life up until that point. He practically flew across the ground, and had there been any bystanders all they would have seen was a seven-year-old flash of blond hair and blue eyes. He was not sure what it was that compelled him to move so quickly – all the boy knew was that Matthieu – his brother, his twin – was in some deep trouble and needed help _now_.

_Gotta get there quick…faster…faster…_he burst through the back door, just turning the knob in time that he didn't ram into the hard wooden surface. Luckily for the boy, his father hadn't locked it when he'd thrown his children out earlier – had the man, Alfred would have smashed his face in upon impact.

He skidded across the kitchen floor and into the living room, breathing heavily. The adults were on the couch, his father on top of his mother…like they'd been hugging or something. They quickly broke apart, obviously shocked and embarrassed at the sudden interruption. Alfred struggled to catch his breath; he needed to get a good lungful of air before he could explain anything to his parents.

"Alfred?" his father stood. "God dammit, why'd you do that?"

His mother, running a quick preening hand through her hair and levering herself into a sitting position, sensed that something was wrong. Perhaps it was her son's face, perhaps it was mother's intuition – Alfred would never know exactly what it was that made her so acute to his moods and needs.

"Alfred, _petit cher_, what's the matter?"

The boy took another gasping breath, but this time words came out when he exhaled. "Matt…in trouble…ocean…he can't come back…"

There was a moment of still silence, non-motion; nothing hung in the air but his words. As they were processed, a sickening, strangled sound of surprise and terror came from his mother's mouth. So quickly it was almost surreal, his father was at Alfred's side, gripping the boy's shoulders in a terrifyingly tight grasp – the grasp of a mortified parent.

"Where is he?"

And even though Alfred still hadn't quite recovered from his previous exertion, he pointed in the direction of the door. "This way – follow me!"

Alfred led his father, both of them racing, out the back door. His mother ran behind them, crying out again and again in a blind, hysterical panic, "_Mon Dieu_, _mon Dieu_,_ mon Dieu_…!"

"He…he was…right over there…," Alfred said when they reached the spot he'd last seen his brother. But where Matthieu had once been, there was now nothing but a dark patch of water. "He was…right there…when I left! I swear!" He was positive they were in the right location – Alfred could just make out the designs in the sand that the other boy had made, not even three feet away.

_Matthieu, where are you?_

His mother let out another tortured utterance, sinking to the sand and entangling Alfred in her arms as she went, holding him so tightly he could scarcely inhale. Normally he would have protested the clingy way she was hanging onto to him, pressing him to her chest so he could hear her frantic, rabbit-like heartbeat. But this was not a normal situation. He actually welcomed the overly secure embrace that was keeping him from floating away on the confused, mentally hypnagogic stream that was flowing around him.

_Mattie…Matthieu? Where'd you go? Where…did you go?_

His father paced back and forth, yelling – no, _screaming_ – a single word, over and over again. "MATTHEW! MATTHEW!" He eventually charged into the water – much as his son had done – and waded about, repeating his call as if a parrot. "MATTHEW! MATTHEW!"

By contrast, his mother's own call was more a pleading moan, beseeching God and any other deity above for the safe return of her child. "Matthieu, Matthieu…_sil vous plait Dieu_, please…God…" Her tears dripped off her chin and landed in Alfred's hair. They boy was cold, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything. Being quiet, for once, and being by his parents' side seemed infinitely more important than complaining about something as trivial as body heat.

This entire ordeal was like a puzzle, the pieces turning and twisting every which way so he could not put them together. _Where is Mattie? Where could he have gone?_ Then, in a brief instance of supposed clairvoyance, he provided himself with an answer. _He got out on his own!_ This riposte to the question of where his brother had gone was very attractive, and the boy readily accepted it as fact. _Yes, that's what happened. He's probably waiting at home right now!_

But if that was so, for what was his mother still crying?

"Mommy, why are you so sad?" her only response was to hug him even closer to her heaving body so he could feel the shudder of every agitated breath. They remained like that for only a few moments longer, for his father came out of the water soon after.

The man wiped salt and moisture from his irritated eyes with a shaking hand, the rest of his person dripping ocean all over the sand. "I'm going to check further down the beach…"

"Francine?" he pried Alfred from his wife's arms of steel, lifting her to her feet by her elbows. Alfred observed the spectacle from the sidelines, mind strangely narrow-feeling and closed; he was only really capable of thinking the same thing, over and over…_he's okay, he's safe, he's okay, he's safe…_

The man held his face close to the woman's, breaking through her barrier of despair. "Francine, listen to me!" he grabbed the sides of her beautiful face in both his hands, directing her eyes so they stared straight into his. She brushed a few errant fingers lightly through her husband's hair, probably only half aware of her actions.

"Take Alfred," his father instructed. "…take him back to the house and then drive to the police station. Tell them our son is lost, and he's most likely in the ocean –" he broke off to stifle something that sounded vaguely like a sob. "…will you do this for me?"

The woman leaned forward, a certain level of awareness and understanding shining from her electric-blue eyes. She deposited a soft kiss on the man's ear. "_Oui_, _mon cher_…"

Her kiss was returned, but hard on the lips instead of delicately on the side of the head. "He's going to be okay," Alfred's father was not only assuring his wife and son, but himself. "I _will_ find him; I promise. Now, go!"

She grabbed her son and carried him to the house, tears falling and voice moaning pitiably all the way. Several times Alfred almost felt her stumble, from either an unseen obstacle or the sheer depth and weight of her anguish, but each time his mother regained her footing at the last second and carried on. He had wrapped his arms around her neck, his legs around her waist, wishing and willing for her sadness to disappear. _She'll see Mattie at the house – she won't be sad then._

Upon reaching their temporary home his mother set him firmly on the living room rug, right in front of the empty fireplace. "Alfred, _petit cher_," her voice trembled in time with her being, right down to her very eyes and the human water that threatened to spill from them - to streak down her cheeks. "_Maman_ will be right back – stay here." She planted a hasty kiss on the top of his head, the proceeded to run out the front door, fumbling to grab the keys on a hook by the entrance. She didn't even put on her shoes.

Alfred, frightened by the hasty abandonment, hurried to the front door. He watched, eyes wide, as the family car pulled out of the drive and sped away along the dirt-packed road that led to nearby civilization. _She's leaving…_

"Mommy!" he screamed shrilly, his throat tightening. "Don't leave me alone!" She didn't hear him. How could she? He left the window, his hand and nose prints still visible on the night-cooled glass. He was alone…Mommy had left him alone…but wait! _Matthieu! Matthieu is here, somewhere._

He distracted himself from the fact he was now temporarily alone in a house at night, something that had never happened to the boy before, with the idea of a stringent search for his brother._ I won't be alone when I find Mattie._ Alfred let out a tiny hysteric and odd sounding laugh. _Just find Mattie…_

The first place he checked was under the bed – his brother's favorite hiding spot. "Ha _HA_!" he exclaimed upon throwing the bed-skirt into the air. "I've got-!…you…?" nothing resided under the bed but a misplaced sock, some wrappers from smuggled pieces of taffy, and the odd dust bunny. No Matthieu. _Where else could he be?_

Alfred looked in his parents' closet, in the bathtub, all the cupboards in the kitchen – and came up with absolutely nothing to show for his efforts. "Matt!" he called out, hoping the other boy could hear him, wherever he was. "It's not funny anymore! Let me find you…" but another forty-five minutes of searching proved to be just as productive as the last.

Discouraged, angry, and the tinniest bit worried, Alfred collapsed on the living room couch. _He'll come out…he always does…_but the boy had done all he could. Maybe he hadn't been here at all? Maybe his mother and father were having more luck than he was. He closed his eyes, trying to think of happy things; but all he could summon in his mind's eye was the faint image of Matthieu's face, still crying for help and swimming amidst a deep blue – almost black – void of nothingness.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

The next time he woke, it was just as black outside as it had been in his dreams. In fact, it still felt like he was trapped in the world of sleep, somewhere in-between awake and deep slumber; a limbo of consciousness. Soft sobs were coming from the kitchen – groggily turning his head ever so slightly, Alfred could see his mother's broken form sitting at the table. Her upper half was crumpled, shaking and lying on the surface upon which they so often ate meals. Her arms were limp, palms facing the heavens as if in a wordless plea.

His father leaned against the wall, hands clasped in his lap and attention directed fully at the floor. He was rigid, taut and solemn – the stiff yin to the woman's collapsed yang. The two adults made no outward motion to the other; no attempt to comfort or dissipate the other's heartache. Just two grown human beings trapped in their own little woe-filled selves.

Then the man moved – slow, shuffling steps. Each one was taken with sloppy kind of deliberate care, as if the single creak of an old floorboard would bring about the doom of them all. He stopped in the doorway, shifting his weight so it was leaning against the frame. Alfred fixed his father with a half-aware bleary gaze, eyes blinking periodically in the uncomfortable light of the living room. What he saw on the man's face was strange and new – nothing. His expression was hollow; the eyes lifeless, the mouth not but a single angular line dividing his face in half.

Alfred's father had a range of emotions – the boy had seen him happy, angry, frustrated, confused, amorous, excited, amused, sad, and playful. But never before had the son seen his father like this. Emptied of empathy and any other sort of emotional sentiment, the man disappeared from view. Alfred, again descending into the realm of dream, was put off. He could hear the faint sound of shuffling feet on the stairs, of continuous sorrow concentrated in the kitchen. But above all, the main thing the boy felt was confusion. It was the last thing that meandered lazily, but impertinently, through his mind before he fell asleep – like a drifter with a chip on his shoulder, not caring enough to make hast and be on his way but eager to make his presence known.

…._why isn't Matthieu with them?_

The next morning was bright and filled with sunshine, the beginning of yet another perfect summer day – but the atmosphere in the house was black and almost completely wordless. The only thing spoken to Alfred had been said moments upon his abrupt awakening by the hand of his mother.

"Pack your things," she told him, voice hoarse and face still wrought with obvious grief. So Alfred did. He packed his brother's things as well – he still hadn't come out from hiding. _If he doesn't appear soon, he'll be left behind!_ He took extra special care of Kuma, never letting the fluffy white bear out of his sight from the moment he got up till the very last suitcase was loaded into the back of the car.

Alfred clambered in, still holding on to the stuffed animal. He looked around. Sure, Matthieu had yet to be found, but weren't his parents taking this a little far? The car had hardly even begun to roll when the boy asked what had been weighing on him for almost half a day now. He broke the unspoken -and apparently unanimously agreed upon - pact of silence, shattering the intimidating lull of conversation in an attempt to clarify the unanswered.

"Have you found Matthieu yet?" it was an innocent question, completely unassuming and in the best of intentions. His father's hand tightened on the wheel anyway. _Why, though? _It was necessary – the boy _had _to know! He couldn't help but ask! He had to know if the sneaking suspicion his brother was hurt somehow was true, or if there was some important tidbit of information that had been kept from him up until his point concerning the missing twin.

The reply was barely audible. " _Non_, _petit cher_," she hadn't even turned around to answer him.

Alfred's face flushed in anger; he leapt forward so he was almost in the front seat with his parents, holding onto the back of the leather-upholstered cushions. "Then why are we leaving him!" he shouted, infuriated rapidly and to his own astonishment. "He's still out there! We should be –"

"Alfred," his father's voice was biting, deep. "Be quiet." The man was still focused on the road ahead, not even sparing a cursory glance to put his son back in line as he would have regularly. The boy, shocked by the sheer severity and terseness in which he had been addressed, fell back into his seat.

_How can they just leave him here? _He made one final bid for resistance. "But-!"

"Listen to your father." This time it had been his mother who'd reprimanded him, and if anything that hurt Alfred even more. He kept his mouth firmly closed for the rest of the ride, teeth clenched and a tear winding its way down his face every other mile.

_I'm sorry, Matt. I tried._

It wasn't until two weeks later, and seven days after a child-sized coffin had been buried under layer upon layer of dirt, that Alfred really began to understand – part of it was due to the increasing ineffectiveness of his own seven-year-old delusions. No longer could he pretend that a wall of coldness had come between the remaining members of his family – his mother's, though, was quickly melting. Slowly, ever so slowly, she was becoming like she once was. His father's had yet to feel the warmth of the future and the consolation that things were getting better.

No longer could Alfred pretend that his brother would waltz in the front door, or pop out from some cupboard or from under the bed. Matthieu wasn't hiding, and he was never, ever coming back. His twin was gone forever now, just like Grandpa Kirkland and Aunt Bella. No words could ever be used to describe the sense of loss the boy was feeling. Every day was now so…empty. But even now that Alfred knew his brother's return was an impossibility, he refused to let his father take the other boy's bed out of their shared room.

"He's going to need it when he comes back," he would protest, sometimes stamping his feet on the floor or crossing his arms – once he even tried to initiate a tug-of-war with the bedframe. It was just one more way to deny the glaring truth, to maintain the smallest semblance of the way life used to be. Alfred despised himself after those episodes, after watching his mother's face crumble and his father's harden.

But the boy was convinced – he was not going to forget Matthieu, no matter how much his parents did.

…_I promise._

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

_**1908 – 1916, New Hampshire**_

Ivan was eight the first time it happened. He could remember so clearly…the night he finally began to understand what love was. The new nanny had just tucked him in…_for the thirty-ninth day in a row_. He'd been keeping track, making little marks on the wooden support beam of his four-poster bed. Where was mom? And why hadn't she come back yet? His sisters were gone too, gone with Mom…but that was – how long ago was it, now…a month? – weeks ago. She'd even said they'd be back by six o'clock but the given hour had come and gone, again and again and again…

_Mom…mama…where are you?_ There had been a string of numerous female visitors since the very beginning of her absence. None of them stayed very long – they all had painted faces, pinchy fingers, and hair and clothes that bordered on ostentatious. Their shrill voices prattled on, talking to his father but never Ivan. There had been a few other men hanging around too, men with suits, men in long gray coats, men in blue uniforms with badges and shiny shoes; sometimes they asked the man questions, sometimes they rummaged through the family's things. _But if they were looking for something, they never found it…_

The nanny left, shutting the light off and closing his door as she did so. _I don't like her…_Mom had always kept the hallway light on and his door slightly ajar, even though his father said he was getting too old for that kind of thing. He lay still in the darkness, warding off the specters of loneliness and neglect by closing his eyes…_the sooner I fall asleep…_the sooner he would wake up, and wait for Mom to come back. Who knew? The coming day could easily right the recent wrongs making themselves known in his home.

The sound of tinkling glass, of someone stumbling around downstairs, was easily heard..._dad_. A nervous sounding, disoriented giggle floated up the stairs – the woman who was currently his parent's fling-of-the-week. _I wonder why they never stay around very long…_not that he minded. The giggle quickly turned into a shriek and the sick impact of flesh-hitting-flesh, as well as angry and confused words, was audible in the safe confines of his room.

_Sleep…sleep…_the blessed action would take all of this away. Ivan clapped his hands around his ears, muffling the sounds enough that he soon found himself hovering on the very edge of dormancy – not quite awake, but not quite asleep, he heard them. Footsteps – heavy, drunken ones, climbing the stairs. _Sleep…sleep…_

Ivan wasn't quite sure the next day if what happened after that was a dream or not – there was a certain unreal aspect during the entire thing…it all started when the door opened. A sliver of light cut through the darkness, illuminating a strip of his bedspread. The band of illumination widened with the increasing breach of the doorway; then, it was gone. Still, Ivan kept his eyes closed. The smell of that one drink – the smell of dad – quickly filled the space. _Someone is on the bed next to me,_ he realized, barely half-conscious, processing everything through a haze of fatigue. _Sleep…sleep…_this had never happened before.

"Boy," came the surprisingly soft words of dad's. "Boy, you awake?" He was uncomfortably close – Ivan could smell his whisky-laced breath, feel the tickle of a mustache on the back of his neck. Ivan didn't answer…_maybe, if I pretend to sleep full-out, he'll leave me alone…_why Ivan wanted this sudden isolation from his father was unclear to him, but at least one thing was – this intimacy was making him uncomfortable.

Something deep inside Ivan told him that a father should not be running his hands up and down his son's back, the way dad was. That a man's fingers should not dip below the waistband of an eight-year-old's pajamas – those places were only for Ivan to see and touch, wasn't that what mom had always told him? _But…but this is Dad…_the boy was confused. He tried to ignore it, but it was impossible. He just stayed completely still, absolutely silent until the man finally left the bed, its springs creaking right along with the floorboards as the man exited the room. Now, Ivan was alone. _Sleep…sleep…sleep…_

The next day, everything was completely normal. The lady-friend was gone now, and over breakfast neither Ivan nor his father spoke a word about what had happened. Ivan, because it made him uncomfortable – he was incredibly conflicted. Should he say anything? _Dad's not…_It didn't feel right, but his father had never done that to him before…_perhaps…perhaps it was a onetime thing?_ Nothing about dad seemed different – the man seemed completely unfazed by the events that had played out in the small hours of the previous night. He was as roseate and loving as always, probably because of the absence of a rage-inducing alcoholic drink in his hand.

A tiny little thought manifested itself in the middle of Ivan's brain, refusing to go away until he threw it the briefest of acknowledgments. _Maybe what happened last night was normal?_

Yes! Yes, it had to be – his father may have hurt other people, but _never_ Ivan. He loved Ivan! Why would a father harm his son? The very idea was ludicrous. So it was with this mentality that the boy crawled into bed with that night. And when the man lumbered up the steps and ended up between Ivan's sheets once more, the boy said not a word and did not a thing. He lay there and took it, thinking over and over in his head – _normal normal normal normalnormalnormalNORMAL._

The next morning, his father was gone but Ivan didn't want to get out of bed. When the nanny came he pretended he was sick – he might as well have been. He felt too wrong inside, so dirty and suffocated…_why do I feel like this, if this is the way things are supposed to be? _He kept the covers pulled up to his nose, breathing slow and deep._ Is there something wrong with me?_ There had to be, especially since these sentiments of compunction were the result of nothing more than being cared for.

Ivan smothered these ideas, his instincts with denial. He was determined to make himself just like any other boy, for he was certain every other boy went through this just as he did. Ivan kept on pretending to fall asleep, lying in bed and telling himself that the dread sitting in his stomach and rooted in his bones was actually excitement - excitement for when his father would climb the stairs and begin the now routine regimen of affection.

Which each passing night Ivan began to feel more and more at peace with what was happening to him; it became habit, completely natural. Ivan accepted his constructed reality in which his father's actions were motivated by paternal affection. The shame faded away with every day, every week, every month. Then there was nothing at all – nothing but amity and complacence.

The moths turned into years, and so Ivan lived on like this; the men in suits and uniforms, once swarming over the estate, stopped coming. The boy still hadn't spoken of it, because no one ever asked. It felt like a private thing, akin to the way one would refrain from divulging how much money they made in a year to a complete stranger. It was his personal business.

Then, around the vulnerable age of thirteen, the man started wanting Ivan to do things back. Until then, the nightly visits and the actions that filled their duration had been a one way street. Ivan had lain, and his father had acted. But apparently acting was not enough to satiate his needs. Ivan, for the first time in ages, called into question the commonality of what he and his father did together. _Is this normal? Do people my age do this to people as old as Dad...to their fathers?_

And again the answer was yes, it had to be. _Dad would never make me do anything wrong._ Just as before the feeling that these actions were so unnatural, so deplorable, faded into the unconcerned backdrop of his barely teenaged mind. What his father did to him was now permanently equated with love – not just the love of a parent, but of all kinds.

_Before I was ignorant, but now I am enlightened. Thank you, Dad, for showing me the way._

Then one day, Ivan's uncle came to the house – his long-absent mother's older brother. It had been years since the other man's last visit, and he had not departed on good terms. He didn't this time either; for you see, he did not come alone. Ivan's uncle brought the men in uniforms and badges, their shiny shoes gleaming menacingly and spectacularly in the dying light of the sun. Held back by his uncle's strong hands, Ivan watched as his father was shoved into the backseat of a car, hands cuffed behind his back and being cited for something called "sexual exploitation of a minor."

"Why are they taking him away?" he asked. "Where are they taking Dad?"

"He was hurting you, Ivan," his uncle responded, aghast. "They're going to lock him away - the filthy bastard deserves it."

A panic filled the boy then – they were taking his father away! "He never hurt me!" Ivan cried. "Don't take him away!" He struggled fruitlessly against the older man's grip, watching in horror as the car carrying his father, his protector and teacher, drove farther and farther away. "DAD LOVES ME!" He never saw the man again – rumor had it he hung himself upon reaching the state prison, but Ivan didn't believe it…didn't _want _to believe it.

Then Ivan was taken away, to live in New York with his childless aunt and uncle. They adopted him, but he did not accept their namesake as his own. They never loved him the way his father had. And whenever Ivan asked them about this, they wouldn't give him a credible reason why.

"Because it's not right" was _not_ a good answer. Why wasn't it right? They never said – for Ivan, it had _become_ right. Who were they to deny him affection? Not only had they taken away his only family, his home and his things, but now they were taking away his right to live a life of attachment and love.

The remainder of his teen years could only be described as borderline reclusive, only venturing out of his room for food and to use the bathroom. A similar code of conduct was utilized while living at the boarding school he attended for ten months every year. People tended to not like him – the people who worked for his uncle, his fellow students…_so what?_ Ivan, in his now cold and austere state, clinically analyzed the world thorough as if through a broken mirror.

But within his desire for isolation there grew the unquenchable and irrepressible desire to have a body to hold next to him, someone to call _his_ and _his_ alone. This all-consuming yearning was different than what he had shared with his father. Ivan wanted someone to stand by his side, someone he could command and yet care for at the same time. After graduating from high-school, the young man searched for that elusive being, that eternal companion. He searched and searched and searched, but could not find "the one."

But then, as luck would have it, she wound up coming to him in the end…one bright spring day…

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

**Letter from Tiesa Laurinatė to her mother**

_Sveiki, Mama!_

_ So many interesting things have happened since I wrote you last; I don't know where to begin! My new job continues to be just as enjoyable as my first day. In fact, just recently I experienced a new bit of Amerikos culture. They celebrate this holiday over here, called "Padėkos diena." We ate a special dinner with some friends, consisting of a turkija and various other traditional dishes – it was quite enjoyable. I got the opportunity to learn some new recipes, and I tried this wonderful dessert called moliūgų pyragas (which is much more delicious than it sounds)._

_ Felicja was there, too, which made the entire experience that much more enjoyable – Ponas Jones surprised me when he extended her an invitation, I have to be honest. I never knew a person of his stature could be so willing to invite the friends of the help into their home. Speaking of Felicja, and on the note of men (as you inquired previously!), guess who found herself a boyfriend? Yes, Felicja has had about three or four dates with Joseph now – she met him in the tailor shop where she works. Mama, I have a question - I like someone, but I'm not sure if he likes me back. What should I do? I haven't had much experience in this area, and it sounds like you would be able to help me. I miss our chats, too, very much and especially at a time like this - but, prašom, prašom don't tell anyone! I don't think I could handle the embarrassment if everyone knew I was pining uselessly over a single man._

_ The first snow of the season arrived early this year, just a few weeks ago – I don't think it's going anywhere until Gegužės! It is very beautiful, but it also makes it rather difficult to drive to town. Just the other day I was driving and I almost did a tail spin - I was going to get things for the arrival of Ponas Jones's fiancée, Ponia Josephine. Ponia Josephine is one of those women that I think one would call contemptuous – but don't worry Mama, I can handle her. I'm sure she just needs to get to know me first; and I suppose it's not my place to make judgments, considering Ponas Jones must have liked something about her enough to propose marriage. Maybe I'm being the blind, inconsiderate one._

_ I trust you received that last portion of my pay? I'm glad it reached you so quickly, and that Raivis is enjoying his birthday presents. I am doing exactly as before and sending you the money enclosed in this envelope. Thank you for the wonderful news about Eduard! He was always a bright one. If he would like, perhaps I could send just a little more money he could use to help bolster his university fund? If he's doing as well as you say he is, maybe it would be better if he spent more time in school instead of working – just a thought, Mama. Could you run it by him for me? I want his permission because I don't want to impune on his integrity as a self-supporting individual (you know how he can get)._

_ Teta Alonda had another baby? That's great! But it does make me long for home – it is kind of difficult to accept the fact that life moves on without you, but that's just one of time's many lessons I suppose. And tell Papa congratulations on the job! I know he doesn't like it much, but he's so skilled at handiwork like carpentry and bricklaying. I'm sure it won't be long before he gets a raise or a promotion. Best wishes and all my love for everyone!_

_ Jūsų mylintis dukra,_

_Tiesa_

**Letter to Tiesa Laurinatė from her mother**

_Numylėtinis Tiesa,_

_ So good to hear from you again, dearest! I know it hasn't been that long since you last wrote, but can one blame a motina for missing her only dukra? I need more estrogen in the house – believe me, your Papa and your brothers are as charming and helpful as always, but a lady needs some female companionship every once in a while! But for now I'll just have to make do with exchanging news through the mail; don't worry, love – your Papa and I have actually started putting aside a small amount of money each payday so we can save up enough to send Eduard or Raivis to Amerika, as well. Oh, won't that be wonderful? You won't be alone, then! It will probably take another couple years or so, but I don't think it should be too long. Now, don't tell the boys about this – Eduard is dead set on attending university in Kauno come the next year or two, and I don't think Raivis's anxiety would really be helped any should he find out. Papa and I just want what is the best for you three; we've done a lot of talking about this._

_Now, on a different note, Padėkos diena sure sounds like an interesting holiday. Moliūgų pyragas you said it was? How strange! And tell Felicja I wish her and her beau the best in the coming weeks, months, and hopefully years (if you understand my meaning!). Don't fret, dear – I promise you, your secret is safe with me. You know, if you're unsure of whether he likes you or not, why not just ask the man? If he has a single honorable bone in his body he'll tell you right then and there (how do you think Papa and I started our courtship?). Men don't want women to know this, but they have insecurities and fears just like the rest of us; he's probably waiting for you to say something first. Take a chance, Tiesa! If you're still the beautiful, kind girl – whom I know you are – that left Lithuania almost six years ago, you will have no problem catching and keeping his attentions._

_ In regard to your question about Eduard's savings – you know what? He's right here! I'll just have him write it down on the paper; I'm sure he can put his thoughts into words much better than I could (never mind the fact he's practically snatching the pen out of my hand as I write this. Stop it, Eduard! You'll get you turn!)._

…

_ Hello Tiesa, this is Eduard writing. Firstly, I would like to thank you most sincerely about your offer to help pay for my education. Secondly, I would like to decline politely and with no ill-will. I genuinely appreciate your concern, but I assure you as your honest younger brolis that it is not needed. I am making out nicely enough with what money I am earning now, and should have a considerable amount saved by the end of next year. You needn't split your pay in yet another direction – rest assured, I am completely capable or taking responsibility for my future endeavors._

_ But my own plans aside, how are you? I can't even begin to tell you empty the house feels without you here. The past few years have definitely been different; I cannot believe this is the first time I've written you since you left. Stay safe over there in Jungtinės Valstijos, alright? As a boy, when I said good bye, I was unaware just what the implications of you emigrating across the world really were. Now I know, and I am afraid. I really wish you were back here, with all of us, where you belong – maybe you should consider that option. _

_ Well, now Raivis is wondering what everyone's doing crowded around this piece of paper, so I might as well give him a turn too; and quickly, before he wets himself with sheer excitement. _

_ Tavo brolis, _

_Eduard_

…

_ Labas, Tiesa! Ignore what Eduard wrote up there – I am not anywhere near wetting my pants. That's just him and his sense of humor, I guess. Thank you so much for the birthday presents! The first one I fill, I'm sending to you! It pains me that I can't really remember much about you from my own memories (you know, given I was only nine when you left) but what I can recollect is that you love to read…right? Well, whether you like to read or not, I am giving you the honor of being the first person in the whole world to read my first completed work!_

_ I miss you a lot, Eduard especially (though I don't think he'd ever admit it outright – he's weird like that). But am I proud when I get to tell my friends that my big sister lives in Amerika! I brought all those postcards you've sent us over the years to school the other day; we had to do projects on other cultures – not to be a braggart, but I'm pretty sure mine was the class favorite. I don't really get the importance of school; why get an education when I'm not going to university? But Mama wants me to go for at least another year, so I guess that's what I'm going to do. What's it like over there, anyway? I mean, is everyone really rich and living in huge houses like everybody says? Mama wants the letter back now, so I guess this is where I'm stopping._

_ Aš tavęs labai pasiilgau! Meilė,_

_ Raivis_

…

___It's Mama again! I need to make this quick – we're running out of paper. This made the boys' day so much brighter; it makes me wish they'd started writing you sooner! I just need to add – your Papa is standing at my shoulder now; he wants me to tell you that he loves you, and to take care of yourself. He appreciates your well-wishes regarding his new job (well, not so new, now). Remember – be the first to speak up!_

_ Meilė,_

_ Mama (and Papa, too!)_

**(A/N)** Sorry again, for the wait ^_^' but I had family over for Thanksgiving, and then finals…and apparently since I'm a junior now I should be caring about those or something…but, hey, you've got it now! More good news – a sizable portion of the next chapter is already written, and it's probably gonna be a BIG one (unless I can find some way to break it down…) Bad news – it's a big one ;A; (I'm currently holding a funeral for my fingertips…and my keyboard).

So, I suggest we hold a pity party. Matthieu/Mattie/Matt/Matthew! ;A; *sob sob sob* I gave him like, three different versions of his name because I can just imagine fem!France and Arthur disagreeing over how to spell his name. So in the end they'd just agree to disagree and call him whatever the Hell they wanted (but Matthieu/Matt, I figure, having French provinces and all, would tend to favor the French name/language). No wonder the poor guy has an identity-crisis-type-thing XD and AU Francine is half-French, and very proud to be so. She speaks _en français_ a lot…and MAN Matt and Alfred were little jerks to each other (but in a completely cute, sibling love kind of way) :D Francine + Arthur…so dysfunctional! GRAH! They love each other, they do…(at least, for now) they can just grate on the other's nerves…pretty much every day O,o

The book they were reading from was _The Tale of_ _Peter Rabbit_, by Beatrix Potter – I'm sure most of you have heard/read of it? I originally had _Dick and Jane_ in there, but I discovered _Dick and Jane_ was published in the 1930's, which would totally blow the established time-continuity to bits :I So I settled with P. Rabbit :) (published 1901). And yes, the Wright Brothers first flew in 1903 – even though planes weren't really used much for anything yet…^_^' You ever smell unfiltered well water? XP Or been to a northern New England beach? D: The waves, man, the waves…

Poor little Ivan – I think this probably my most accurate interpretation of him yet; a lonely little guy, who learned through shame and self-deception (a.k.a. child-grooming) the **WRONG** way to "love." Yup. I've put some research into his character – I felt…not right about the way I'd written him in the past, mostly because I couldn't get into his head to see _why_ he did the things he did – but now I can :D I don't think he's an evil guy (well, maybe a teeny bit), don't get me wrong; he's socially stunted (a.k.a., awkward and creepy with a capital "C-R-E-E-P-Y") and extremely misguided. He's also a clever little bugger…And something for you to decide – did Ivan's mom run off with his sisters? Or did something more…sinister happen to them? I'll leave that up to your interpretation. By the way, I do _**not**_ think that getting abused as a child gives you the green light to go abuse others – I'm just trying to provide background for his thought process.

I like writing the letters – I was routing through a bunch of old boxes at my grandparent's house and found a whole bunch of letters, dating all the way back to the thirties (it was pretty cool, reading some of them!) They really helped me get the whole "letter thing" down :D In short, it was pretty friggin' awesome – like I was going back in time or something. Seriously, if you have those kinds of things lying around, take advantage of them C:

I tried to give Mama/Eduard/Raivis distinctly different writing styles…can you tell? : Also, the individual memory parts are supposed to be from the majority of one character's POV, but slightly objective at the same time. Did you pick up on that? D;

**DICTIONARY: (I friggin' love other languages…)**

**Oui** – yes, in French

**Temps pour le dîner, les garçons** – Time for dinner, boysI

**Il a jeta du sable au ma visage** – He threw sand in my face!

**Mon cher** – my dear

**Amour** – love :3

**Oui! Très, très rapide**. – Yes! Very, very fast.

**Je suis désolé.** – I am sorry.

**Bœuf en daube** - a traditional French stew; it's got beef in it.

**Gâteau** - cake

**S'il vous plait** - please

**Non** - no

**Mange de la merde, abruti**. – Eat shit, moron.

**Aidez-moi** – help me

**Mon Dieu** – my God

**Maman** – Mommy

**Petit cher** – little dear

**Sveiki** – hello, in Lithuanian

**Amerikos** - American

**Padėkos diena** – Thanksgiving

**Turkija** - turkey

**Moliūgų pyragas** – pumpkin pie

**Prašom** - please

**Gegužės** – May (as in the month)

**Ponia** – Miss (as in Miss Josephine)

**Ponas** – Mister (as in…you get the point!)

**Teta** – Aunt

**Jūsų mylintis dukra** – Your loving daughter

**Numylėtinis** - darling

**Motina** - mother

**Dukra** - daughter

**Amerika** - America

**Kauno** – Kaunas

**Broils** – brother

**Jungtinės Valstijos** – the United States

**Tavo broils** – Your brother

**Labas** – Hi!

**Aš tavęs labai pasiilgau!** – I miss you!

**Meilė** - love


	10. Chapter 8

**Lessons in Housekeeping** – Chapter 8

**DISCLAIMER: **What? How outrageous! I never claimed to own the rights to Hetalia… ;)

_**December 2nd, a train bound for Virginia**_

The carriage of the train was gently rocking back and forth in time with the spinning of the wheels, Josie comfortably jostling along with it. She watched the scenery pass by, rather unappreciative if the beautiful snow-covered landscape. She'd been silently fuming for over two weeks now, replaying the incident with Demyan over and over again and cursing the wretchedly ungrateful man for all he was worth (which wasn't very much). Now the young woman was headed towards Virginia, but that didn't do anything at all to improve her black mood – in fact, it probably made her demeanor even nastier.

_He left so suddenly, right after talking about _HER_ nonetheless!_

Josie had been given over fourteen days to think about what went down in that horribly mundane hotel room, what they'd done and what they'd said. And it was when that Tori girl entered the conversation things went AWOL. The woman had a whole lot of time before going back to her fiancé's house, and therefore had a whole lot of time to consider and assume what Demyan's reaction had meant.

_Could Demyan, _my_ Demyan, have had a past with this girl?_

By way of her reasoning, it was entirely plausible. It wasn't like the domestic was some hideous beast, or even easy to overlook – quite the opposite. And it wasn't like the world was so big their knowing each other could never happen; in fact, that they'd come into contact at all was a testament to its smallness.

Josie examined her nails, long and in desperate need of a good filing. She withdrew the required personal grooming tool from her bag, setting about the miniature – and lately, neglected – beauty regimen.

_ She could jeopardize everything…_and judging by the manner in which Demyan had left Josie at the hotel, it wasn't just her sham marriage with Alfred that was in danger of falling to pieces. Finished with her right hand, Josie admired her handiwork, but not so enraptured was she by her nail-care prowess did she forget to mentally rail against the much-hated domestic.

_What a little whore – first she gets to Demyan before I do, and now she's sabotaging my plans for a new start._

Quietly attacking her enemies in her spare time was better than imagining what her father was doing with the remains of her birthright – squandering it, no doubt, by buying himself a seat at a high-stakes poker game or throwing it at the lawyers who handled the man's divorce settlements (on a fairly regular basis, too – the old man had re-married so many times after Josie's mother ran off with his brother, she'd lost count almost completely).

She needed money, and she needed it soon. Living the majority of her life as a member of high-society had equipped Josie with few tools in which she could use to make a living for herself; she had been born to be a trust fund baby, no doubt about it. But it was this same pension for all things expensive and high-caliber that drove her expertise in the field of extortionism; how else could a defenseless, penniless, former debutant expect to survive?

Josie Hughes had never been one to wait around in her empty mansion, willing and hoping for some higher being to bestow grace on her person – no, Josie made her own luck, her own fortune, and her own future. What kind of con artist would she be if she couldn't out-seduce some imported dame and strip a playboy government brat of his entire name's worth?

_But…_she wiped the file on an empty seat next to her, thankful no one else accompanied her in the car to witness her rather unsanitary – and downright disgusting – act. She attacked the next set of un-uniform nails with even more ferocity.

_ …therein lies my problem_.

If Josie had been able to gather anything about the man she was going to marry, it was that Alfred was a "class A" Casanova – and he knew it. Looks, physique, money; what else could a girl possibly hope for in a man? He could easily dump her and find someone else to mooch off of, not that she thought he was smart enough to figure that out. Or, if he was even stupider and ended up falling for the housekeeper, Josie's plan would lose all functionality.

_ Yet, _my_ man is notably lacking in the latter category._ Not for long; when this scheme of her paid off, Josie and Demyan could live together in comfort for the rest of their natural lives. They could move somewhere warm all year round, with no snow, no mob, and no fathers to waste their time and money.

Josie pressed her now-filed nails into her palm, the curved edges biting painfully into the soft and vulnerable flesh which resided there. _And now this…this…European _trash_ is coming in and ruining EVERYTHING!_ Worst of all, there was nothing she could do! What was she supposed to say to Alfred; "Better not get that maid of your in the sack - it could destroy my plan to bleed you dry."? _I don't think so!_

Josie's lips were pursed, her arms now crossed. She supposed, once she and Alfred were married, she could fire the slut and done with her forever. But still, Josie had to wonder – given her fiancé's already established voracious sex life (prior to herself, of course)…had he already slept with the other young woman? It was possible.

_And is it possible she's had a relationship with Demyan as well?_ The thought alone made her blood boil unbearably beneath her skin. Demyan told her there had been other girls who'd preceded her, and Josie hadn't really minded it because she knew she was the only woman the hulking man would truly ever want…but now an old flame might be back in the picture.

Demyan was _hers_, Alfred was _hers_…the latter until she was done using him, at any rate. But the fact of the matter was, Josie felt infringed upon. It was as if someone had defiled her property, taken it away or made it less valuable. And Josie had experienced enough loss and disappointment to satisfy any normal person for a lifetime. She resolved that not one more object, person, or cent would be wrested from her grasp, by _anyone_, right there in that train car.

There was a fleeting moment of doubt she experienced, in which Josie called her sweeping judgment and assumptions concerning the foreign girl, but she pushed those poisonously merciful thoughts away. Somebody had to pay, and the servant girl was that somebody.

She schemed, very satisfied with herself as well as her powers of deduction and problem resolution, for the rest of uneventful ride. As the train steamed into the station belonging to the Virginian town, the outline concerning her plan for the next few days was completed.

Josie threw herself into the arms of the waiting Alfred – handsome and chauffer-like on the platform, awaiting her arrival. "Alfred, darling!" were the first gushing words she blurted, cutting off the man in the middle of the formation of his own greeting. The next sentence practically crawled out of her throat, slithering from the devious part of her mind which quite enjoyed being handed the reins.

"Alfred," she said again, finger lain across his lips to keep him quiet. She felt a smile creep across her own lipstick-painted ones. "Have you realized we haven't had an engagement party yet?"

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Tiesa had been holed up in the attic for the past few hours, and fully intended to stay there for at least two more.

…_maybe even three…?_

She'd spent her time drifting rather aimlessly around the dusty and unused space, rearranging boxes and chests, sifting through their discombobulated contents as to organize the various odds and ends she found stashed in their musty-smelling depths. A dirty brown glow just barely managed to filter in through a grime-layered skylight, which was either a last minute afterthought by the builder of the house or a rather recent addition.

_ I better clean that…_just something else to stall her inevitable descent to the lower levels of the manor. _I'm not doing busywork,_ she told herself firmly. _I'm moving old things around so when we need to put more belongings up here, we actually have room for storage._

It was a task which needed to be completed, no doubt, but certainly not that particular day, that particular moment. There was an array of other, more pressing tasks that needed to be attended to, but Tiesa wanted to put off seeing Miss Josephine again for as long as she possibly could.

She was in process of dragging a particularly cumbersome box from the nether regions of an obscure and cobweb littered corner when the faint sound of the front door slamming floated up to the attic. And even less audible, but still comprehensible, was the unmistakable breathy voice of Miss Josephine accompanied by Alfred's. She flinched, despite the fact that more than twenty vertical feet separated her from the southern belle. Shaking her head with self-dismay and carefully opening the twine-bound box, Tiesa tried as hard as she could refrain from listening in on the words her employer exchanged with his fiancée.

_I'm terrible enough for running and hiding as it is._ But it wasn't like she'd left them completely on their own; no, she'd slapped together a sturdy but tasteful lunch and brewed coffee for the two of them – Alfred, she was sure, knew how to re-heat things…_I think?_ Besides, she highly doubted the betrothed couple would want her present while they caught up with one another.

"Wait a minute – where's Tori?" _That would be Alfred._ He didn't sound angry upon the discovery of her absence, for which Tiesa was thankful. He seemed more perplexed to the young woman, judging by his tone.

"Oh, who knows, darling…," was the airy reply. "Perhaps she went to run errands? Doesn't she usually do that sort of thing?"

Tiesa repressed a livid shudder and busied herself with the stubbornly-knotted twine, twisting and pulling at the scratchy strands until her fingers ached. _I really should have brought some scissors…_it wastoo late now. And unfortunately, slightly maiming her fingers did nothing to affect her ability to hear.

Miss Josephine's voice again crept into the attic. "And besides…her absence means we can get more time to ourselves…"

The young woman could only imagine what was going on in the subsequent silence, and she didn't like the images her imagination was conjuring. She felt so foolish – here she was, losing her composure just because of her growing friendship with Alfred. She shouldn't care what he did with his fiancée – he was marrying her because they were in love, and it wasn't like Tiesa had any say in the matter. Friends didn't let other friends mess up their lives on principle, and she felt like she was failing in that respect.

_So what if she's a spoiled, nasty, ignorant…_she stifled the abusive thoughts and sighed as she finally succeeded in ripping the last of the box's binding from its exterior. It wouldn't do any good to harbor ill will towards her future…mistress. Her lip curled slightly in aversion at the notion. _Once every few weeks is bad enough, but every single day?_

Tiesa opened the flaps, fully expecting more junk along the likes of which she had discovered in all the previous containers she had opened. She blinked in surprise, caught off guard by what she had uncovered. So far, the most interesting items Tiesa had come across were receipts from a department store in New York, years upon years' worth of completed and forgotten paperwork, and petrified mouse droppings.

But instead of brittle documents or animal feces, what lay in the box on her lap was what at first glance appeared to be a heap of slightly yellowed fabric. Intrigued, Tiesa pulled it free, and the seemingly unremarkable swatch of lace revealed its true identity.

_ It's a dress…a wedding dress…_and a beautiful one, at that. Underneath the delicate lace lay a ribbed bodice and layers of bunting made of silk. Woven in at random intervals were tiny little pearls, dotting the exterior in a sporadically gorgeous pattern. It had long and modest sleeves, but a decidedly low-cut neckline. Tiesa fingered the dress in awe – she had never seen one like this in person before. Her own mother had been married in nothing more than a clean frock, just as all the other women in her life had been.

_Whose was this?_ She couldn't keep herself from wondering a whole myriad of things as she set the dress aside and looked through the box's remaining contents. There was no veil to accompany the wedding garment, but there was a collection of obviously woman's clothing. Each article was pulled forth and carefully – respectfully – examined. The whole lot of it was maybe around ten years out of date by Tiesa's guess, but in it's time the wardrobe must have been fashionable and obviously selected with by someone taste.

Taking care to fold the clothes – they had previously been packed sloppily, as if they had merely been tossed and stuffed inside – she found a proper spot for the box and hastened to find another from the same area in which the first had been taken from. The next one held pictures, many of them all layered on top of one another in a big incomprehensible heap. Tiesa withdrew one and scrutinized the faces; a classically beautiful woman was posed in many of them, sometimes by herself, sometimes with a visibly younger and happier Mr. Kirkland, and sometimes with two small children who were similar in age and appearance. There were a few where all four were together.

_ Two children,_ _a mystery woman, and Mr. Kirkland…_she flipped what appeared to be a family portrait over, and on the back found neatly styled writing which curled and looped in on itself.

_ The Kirkland Family_, it read across the bottom edge in faded ink. _Fall of 1906 – Arthur, Francine, Alfred, and Matthieu. _Tiesa furrowed her brows, puzzled.

_I didn't know he had a brother – maybe he's attending school, perhaps?_ For what other reason would she be unaware of another Kirkland's existence? Granted, that was a pretty insubstantial reason to begin with…and as for the woman, she had to be their mother. _Francine…that's a pretty name._ But why hadn't Tiesa been introduced to her yet, either? It didn't make much sense, really. Perhaps Mrs. Kirkland held the same antagonism for her son as Mr. Kirkland did.

She looked at a few more of the family pictures, and suddenly, it all made sense. Tiesa immediately felt stupid as well as ashamed. Printed on the paper were just three people – Mr. and Mrs. Kirkland, one child standing forlornly off to the side. _The Kirkland Family_, it read; _Fall of 1910 – Arthur, Francine, and Alfred._ The next couple carried on in a similar fashion – with the notable absence of Matthieu – then there was one without Francine in it. After that there were no more. In the last photo, Alfred looked little older than ten, if even, with a sizable distance between him and his father. They looked less a family than two strangers who'd bumped into each other one the street.

Tiesa hastily placed the portraits back in their proper place and closed up the box. _I've been so rude…_flipping through pictures and belongings as if she owned them – snooping, feeding her insatiable desire for information concerning her employer. The young woman was sick with herself, the guilt weighing in her chest and stomach like a lead ball. _Are you happy now?_ She asked herself, leaning back against the wall, sitting on the floor. _I hope you're satisfied._

Matthieu – presumably Alfred's brother – was dead. And Francine was now either accompanying her son in the afterlife, or had left her remaining family behind for reasons unknown to the mortified Tiesa. And here she was, just leafing through treasured family belongings without a single second thought for the young man's privacy.

She rubbed at her temples, shaking her head. _I'll put it all back_, she decided. _I'll put it all back like I never took it out in the first place._ Tiesa did the required tying and packing, then pushed the boxes back into the corner from which they came. It was best leaving these kinds of things untouched, much like how one would treat a scalding pan – you wouldn't press against it with your fingertips, now would you?

Tiesa hurried downstairs, brushing the dust and cobwebs from her clothes and hair as she went, trying very hard not to think about the discovery she had just made in the attic. Instead, she focused on how she was going to serve Miss Josephine and Alfred without making herself look like a completely useless fool.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

_**December 11, the Kirkland Virginia Estate**_

The sound of the party was deafening. The cheers and the singing and the music managed to penetrate every orifice of the house, mostly because the raucous celebration _was going on_ _in_ every orifice of the house. The only room Tiesa was absolutely positive the guests had not touched was her quarters, and that was only because the young woman had locked the door before she left so no drunken couple would mistake her bed as one open for an hour or two of alcohol fueled passion.

And there were many an intoxicated pair to be aware of in the manor on this occasion. It was almost two in the morning by this point, and people had begun arriving the previous night at six. The eight hours between then and the present had been filled with festivity along the lines of which Tiesa had never seen. The rooms were so full of people it would be a miracle if thirty more would be able to fit into the house.

Tiesa hadn't even realized just how mundane her life had been up until that point, when compared to the mirth of all people in attendance – it was obvious they got together at these sorts of things all the time. And as this was her first one, she felt like an outcast loner just barely hanging onto the edge of social decency.

_All alone…sitting in my corner…_and indeed she was a loner that evening, with nothing or no one to keep her company but a bottle of beer – or, to be more specific, and unidentified type of alcohol. Tiesa had already downed three, nursing them the entire night; the drinks made her head buzz and her tongue feel thick. Normally she didn't drink, but this past week and a half had been particularly trying as well as exhausting – she needed some kind of reprieve, even if said reprieve was the result of intoxication.

The arrival of Miss Josephine for Christmas (well, to be more exact, the majority of December) had signaled the end of her brief and wonderful nirvana. Cleaning, cooking, dressing, laundry – just as before, all her duties had to be performed to the ridiculous requirements of the woman. _At least she isn't talking to me like I'm an idiot, anymore._ No, instead her future mistress had taken to breaking things – cups, plates, what have you – and asking Tiesa ever-so-sweetly if she could tidy up the mess. It happened far too often to not be deliberate, although Tiesa didn't really see what sort of benefit the petty action gave Miss Josephine.

_So she's breaking the china sets she'll be using for dinner parties come some months' time – the only people hurting here are herself and Alfred._

Her thoughts trailed off momentarily, swirling with the rhythm of the music and the velvety effect three strong drinks had on her. The fourth one was in her hand, still unopened. Tiesa was beginning to regret taking even the first one –Alfred had thrown it to her with the jovial phrase, "Let loose! Enjoy yourself tonight." _Easy for him to say…_she examined the contents of the bottle and swirled it slightly. _Where does he even buy this stuff?_

She seemed to recall that the sale and consumption of alcohol was illegal; so how was it Alfred managed to procure a couple hundred crates of the stuff with only a day's notice? The very beverage she held in her hand was not stored in a conventional container, but in what appeared to be a small, repurposed milk bottle.

Where did he even get the alcohol? She seemed to recall that the selling or buying of the beverages was illegal, so how was it that her employer managed to get his hands on a couple hundred bottles of the stuff every time he hosted an event? The young man had to be his supplier's best customer, by far.

She felt incredibly out of place, a boring fixture on the face of something much more massive and intriguing. Tiesa knew none of the other young men and women swirling, twirling, and drinking around her – in fact, she was pretty sure Alfred didn't know most of them either. No one person could be acquainted with so many people, it was absurd. Still, hordes of them had gathered for what Miss Josephine and Alfred were calling their "engagement get-together." Alcohol and dancing was an attractive lure for these individuals.

It wasn't like the night had been a complete throwaway from the start – a guy around her own age, maybe a few years older, had approached Tiesa and asked her to dance in a futile attempt to draw her from her niche tucked away from the intrusive crowds. His hair was so blond it was practically white, and his eyes had been the strangest shade of brown – almost a deep red in the mostly dark atmosphere, the few lights that were lit glinting off his pupils and illuminating his hair in a way that was almost ethereal. He hadn't been unpleasant to look at, but frankly Tiesa hadn't wanted to dance with him. The way he spoke, the way he held himself, and the way he had looked at her had been completely unappealing. She had turned him down politely of course, but the moronic ass stalked away as if she had insulted his manhood in a very personal manner.

_Good riddance_, she'd thought then, popping off the cap of her second beverage that evening.

Speaking of beverages…Tiesa directed a slightly pensive glance to the one in her hand. She twisted the crudely-crafted cap off, a tiny voice of reason in the back of her head saying that maybe the last three had been enough. The image of Miss Josephine hanging on Alfred's arm, dancing, laughing, was what compelled Tiesa to ignore the often-listened to and abided by words of contemplation.

A moment was wasted in the wary study (the fourth one) of the bottle's contents. It could have been anything from beer to brandy; Tiesa, however, would never know. _Maybe that's for the best…_she lifted the glass rim of the bottle to her lips, gagging slightly as the fiery liquid went down. _Definitely not beer_, she finally decided; but whatever it was, it certainly got the job done. The edge was now taken off her foul mood for the rest of the night, surely, and her thoughts now had a discernible haze cast over them.

_Not too much_…she was determined to not get completely hammered; she knew all too well what kind of thing could happen if she drank any more that night – rather not from experience, but from watching it happen to others. Tiesa rolled her tongue in her mouth, trying to rid it of the slightly antiseptic taste the liquid had left behind.

_For all I know, that's what could be in it!_ Now the only thing Tiesa could picture when she looked at the bottle was herself, but downing a pint of cleaning fluid. _Dammit..._she had been thoroughly turned off of the mysterious drink, but it was probably for the best. The young woman placed the alcohol on the floor beside her feet, determined not to touch it again for the rest of the night.

Tiesa winced as a loud crash and a tinkling shatter echoed over the general din, followed almost immediately thereafter by a gale of inebriated laughter. She could only imagine which expensive vase or window (or maybe some other fragile, valuable, hard to replace item) had just become the drunken guests' latest victim.

_If three did this much to me_, she wondered, _what about the other guests who've had more?_ Tiesa had tasted alcohol before; Felicja had scored a couple bottles from numerous illegal outlets during their travels. But usually she was much better at holding her so-called liquor; the only explanation was that the drinks she'd just were stronger than the average leftover - formerly commercially distributed - alcoholic beverage. And the young woman doubted many of the other party-goers had come to similar realization.

At this point, almost as many of them were scattered on the furniture as there were dancing. Tiesa was fortunate to have her couch to herself, but all around her were individuals who looked like they were in comas as well as the odd couple, wrapped in an amorous embrace. Some of those couples were getting a little too public with their affection, Tiesa felt. Her stomach turned uncomfortably – _no, don't think about it… _- and she twisted around so she could look out the window behind her. She was ignoring her fatigue, or trying to anyway, as well as the music, voices, singing, and laughter that berated her from all sides. _This is why I'm not asleep tonight…_had she known the party would go on for so long, she might have spent the night at Felicja's. She felt even more exhausted when she dwelled on the thought of clean-up the following morning (it technically _was_ that morning when Tiesa thought about it, but in all truth she wanted to have the illusion she would get some sleep before she went to work on the mess which no doubt encompassed the entire estate).

There was the slightest creaking noise - Tiesa was astonished she was able to hear it over everything else - as someone sat down on the couch beside her. She shifted so she could get a look at who had intruded her vigil of melancholic boredom.

"Hey," a man slurred. He was probably around mid-twenties, and was by no means ugly (more pleasing to the eye than the last guy, even) - but he reeked of alcohol, as if he'd taken a bath in the stuff, and _then_ dumped an entire bucketful of it over his head. He looked the part of party drunkard too, with mussed up hair, rumpled liquid stained clothes, and bloodshot eyes. His glasses sat askew on his nose, hanging from one ear.

Tiesa tried her hardest not to instinctively recoil, and was pleased when she succeeded. _Just be polite, like last time - he has to go away eventually._ Last time the guy hadn't been drunk of his ass, like this one obviously was. Still, she put on a smile to hide her apprehension.

"Why...why arrre yoou naht enshoying the partay?" He was slurring his words almost to a comical point, his speech stumbling over the hurdle of his unresponsive tongue and motor skills. Hair was matted to his forehead with sweat and God-knows-what-else.

Tiesa shrugged and scooted a little further down the couch towards the armrest, trying in vain to escape the thus far one-sided conversation. He followed her, less gracefully, but still succeeding in closing the distance between them by a full two feet. She could smell him now, the alcohol and the sweat – even the lingering scent of perfume from a girl he'd danced with. Her close proximity to the man did nothing to sooth her sense of unease._ Go away – just leave me alone, please…_

"Lizzie," he whined, voice-breaking. "Why'd you ditch me out there, on the dance floor? If it's because of that one damn creep again, I swear..." He was so incoherent he couldn't even tell her face from another woman's. "I mean, he's got a canary…I've got a friggin' grand piano…if you get my drift…"

Tiesa got it. And she really, _really_ wished she didn't. _Did she ditch you because you're drunk? Because I wouldn't blame her if she did._

"I'm not Lizzie," she explained slowly, not making eye contact and trying to make herself as small as possible by crushing her side into the armrest. "You've got the wrong person. I'm sorry." If she got up and left, he'd just pursue her – she needed to persuade him he was mistaken. _Now go away._

"'Course you are," he insisted while waving a hand in the air, motioning to her with gusto. "You look just like Lizzie...you're Lizzie...did you forget me? I'm Rod...you know your Rod..."

"I'm _not_ Lizzie - I'm _Tori_," she said, starting to get irritated both by the man whom she now knew as "Rod" and the entire situation in general. "I'm Tori," she repeated, but Rod remained unfazed. His eyes were glassy and almost unseeing, a look of perpetual confusion frozen on his face; eyebrows furrowed deeply, mouth hanging open just slightly.

"Nah," he drawled slowly, pleased himself for coming to a conclusion. He took on a playful tone – or the drunken equivalent of one. "Stop trying to trick me, Lizzie. I _know_ it's you...you got...you got the same hair and the…and the same eyes..."

_I'm not Lizzie! _Tiesa wanted to shout in frustration. _Just leave me alone!_ Why did this kind of thing always happen to her, she lamented. Why? Shaking her head, Tiesa forfeited the scenario as hopeless, getting up to relocate to someplace where the uncoordinated and utterly hammered Rod could not follow her._ I'll just get to my room, lock the door, and try to sleep…_

Then she felt his damp, clammy fingers wrap themselves around her wrist, bringing her forward momentum to a jarring halt. Awakened within her was the primal need to be set loose, so to be assured of her own security. A strange man had her in his grasp, and she was _not_ feeling very safe at all. "Let me go," she said, cursing the waiver in her voice. Tiesa tugged firmly, trying to break free.

"L-l-let m-me _go_," the pitch of the words rose in accordance with her anxiety, as well as the frantic nature of her actions. _He's not letting go he's going to hurt me what am I supposed to do I can't get out _– deep inside, she knew she was acting irrationally. But this man was drunk, Tiesa herself didn't have her full wits about her, and she was tired. It was astounding how quickly annoyance could turn into gut-wrenching fear.

"You're Lizzie," Rod slurred, confidently. He tightened his grip in response to her struggles, and Tiesa felt her bones groan in protest to the rough treatment – he was incoherent, but he was still strong; probably unconsciously so. She still tried unsuccessfully to wrest herself from his grasp, but he just grabbed her with his other hand so he had her in an even tighter hold.

_Get away get away get away !_

The all too familiar sense of panic was coming back, overwhelming her common sense and thought process. _No!_ Tiesa could feel it, she could actually consciously sense her mind delving into the archives of her memory and dragging _it_ forth, determined to make her relive the feelings and the tears and the fear. Her breathing became quick and shallow, her eyes wide and her limbs rigid; in her mind the man refusing to let her go was no longer Rod, and the room around her was no longer filled with music and people.

"LET ME GO!" She shrieked. "_Leiskite man eiti_!"

"**No," he said crowed, sickeningly sweet, trailing his mouth along the curve of her neck as he did so. He made sure to keep her hands secured behind her back so she couldn't beat him with her palms or scratch his skin with his nails. There was no escape; no escape except to let him do the deed, leaving her hollow and humiliated afterwards. His lips felt like ice and his fingers even more so as they fondled those places only she herself had ever touched. She prayed and she pleaded aloud, but it was all for naught. Her cries meant nothing because no one could hear. Still, she called out, desperate. The sensation might have been pleasurable with a different man and with her consent – but right now she wanted nothing more than to die. Never before had anything made her feel so awful, so frightened and ashamed. She prayed to God for a miracle, for mercy from both the Almighty as well as her assailant; but when he turned her head towards him she was forced to look into his eyes, and she saw in their depths absolutely no intention of stopping.**

Trapped in the past, surrounded by individuals completely oblivious to the mini-drama playing out silently and before their very eyes, Tiesa screamed.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

So far the night had been full of merriment and jovial activity for Alfred, who had consumed himself with dancing and socializing for the majority of the time. He'd had a few beers, not too many – he felt like keep his wits (and dinner, too) with him on this particular occasion. Josie had been with him the whole time, stuck by his side as if glued there.

_I hope Tori's having a good time_, he thought to himself as he dragged his fiancée to a more secluded hallway, away from the eyes of those in attendance. The young woman had seemed less cheerful this week, her witty sense of humor a little slower – like she wasn't up to the task of being happy. _Man, I hope she's not getting depressed or anything…_he felt guilty for leaving her to defend for herself amongst all these strangers, but Josie had pulled him away before he could ask her to come with them, and he'd quickly lost his friend in the undulating crowd.

_I'm sure she's doing fine_, he told himself as he pressed Josie up against a wall, her hands tangled in his hair and his lips locked with hers. He could feel himself getting into the foreplay, which brought Alfred a slight sense of relief; he'd been feeling really awkward around Josie for the past week, especially those first few days. If their chemistry wasn't consistent, he'd be spending the rest of his life with someone whom he couldn't love; and for a while there, that's what Alfred was afraid of.

_Christ, that would suck…_Josie pressed her body against his, eliciting a low moan from the young man as physical pleasure radiated throughout his body, congregating somewhere in his middle and radiating from there. Even still, there was the slightest grain of contrition within him for his actions – _…but why?_ He couldn't place it, the nagging sense of wrong-doing as he got ready to sweep Josie off her feet and carry her to the bedroom.

_Why am I feeling this…?_ It was profoundly unarousing. The more he dwelled on it, the less turned on by Josie's seductive gestures he was. He stopped kissing her, pulling away slightly. His hands remained on either side of her head, braced against the wall.

With the slightest frown, she batted her chocolate eyes and asked, "What's wrong?"

"I…uh…" _What the Hell do I say?_ Alfred shook his head in a vain attempt to bring some clarity to the peculiar sensation he was feeling. "I dunno…" _Great. Just great! You, Alfred, are a "genius."_

Josie's face began to crumple, and Alfred didn't want to be around to find out if her expression would turn out to be one of hurt or frustration. He could feel himself sinking into the mire of her discontent, already forming apologies and excuses, when he heard it – a high, keening sound of distress audible even over the guests and the band he'd booked to entertain them. His head jerked instinctively towards the utterance.

This sound was not like the peels of scream-like laughter currently filling his home, nor was it the energetic cry of someone cheering on a friend in a drinking game.It was the chilling wail of a human being in great terror.

_I should know what that sounds like…_

He turned back to Josie (whose expression had ended up looking thoroughly pissed), and motioned in the general direction the sound was coming from. "Do you hear that?"

When it became apparent he wasn't going to resume their intimate routine, Josie's annoyance dissolved into exasperation. "Hear _what_?"

"...that screaming..." Alfred extracted himself from her grip and started turning every which way, trying to pinpoint the exact location and source of the cry; an almost impossible task given the amount of excess noise and activity. _Dammit, where's it coming from?_ He took a few steps towards the fray of people, craning his neck for a good look around the surrounding area.

He felt Josie's lean and deceptively weak-looking arms wrap themselves back around his waist – she pressed herself into the curves and dips of his backside; he hardly even noticed. "It's probably just someone enjoying themselves too much, Alfie…" Her breath tickled his ear. "Let's go back to your room…I'll show you what kind of scream _I _can make…"

Had the circumstances been different Alfred would have wasted no time in taking the woman up on her proposition, but he was completely and hopelessly distracted. But, for the briefest moment, he seriously considered accepting Josie's explanation and retreating with her to his bed, and the inevitable act of intimacy which would take place there.

_No_. He couldn't ignore those sounds; they penetrated his ears and filled him with an intense need to find some way, any variety of way, to help. "I'll be right back," he disentangled himself from his fiancée's hold and plunged headfirst into the crowd. He didn't notice Josie's scowl, her crossed arms and the anger which was now rolling off of her in waves; he wasn't there to see it.

_Where are you?_ He shoved people aside, paying no heed to their exclamations of surprise and displeasure alike – a few of the men swore and tried to challenge him, but Alfred just squeezed past them and through the next few layers of the mob. He paid no mind to his feet, which were getting stepped on (he was unsure of whether it was intentional or not) or the shoves directed at his person from the disgruntled partiers he'd left behind (most definitely intentional). Alfred was a man with a goal; and that goal was to find the source of the screaming.

_There_, he decided, his ears directing him to the farthest corner of the dimly lit room. The young man resumed his quest with renewed vigor. _Come on, come on! Keep making noise._ He maneuvered around a couple, right there in the middle of the room, whose limbs were so entwined he couldn't tell where one started and the other began. _Surely I couldn't have been the only person to hear this?_ And he wasn't. No sooner had Alfred thought this, he hit a part of the crowd that the densest yet. Some of them had gathered around something, and Alfred did not have a very good feeling about what it might be.

He resumed his systematic expulsion of individuals from his path, but with a touch more difficulty. "Move!" he ordered a man, close to the inner rings of the congregation, but much bigger than him. "Please?" he added as a sheepish afterthought, upon being fixed with one of the meanest, nastiest glares he'd ever encountered. The man moved aside begrudgingly, and Alfred flashed a quick smile as if to say "no harm, no foul." And then Alfred turned to see what all the commotion and screaming was about.

And when he saw the smile slid from his face as if his mother herself had risen from the grave and slapped it off him. He almost choked on his tongue. _Tori…?_

Tori was standing there, screaming and shouting words and phrases that were incomprehensible to his ears, and it was not due to the surrounding noise this time – it was like the young woman wasn't speaking English. That in itself was disturbing, but what made Alfred's vision glaze over with rage and his blood run cold was what was happening to her – a guy was kind of draped around her, a drunken imitation of a lover's embrace. His face was buried in the folds of her clothes.

Something drew taut in his psyche, and then snapped. Alfred would later swear that he almost heard it. The young man, face twisted and hands balled up in enmity, strode across the gap between him and the aggressor in a matter of seconds, thinking of nothing but smashing the other guy's face into a million bloody pieces.

_LET HER THE FUCK GO._

In one expertly executed move, he grabbed ahold of the hysterical Tori and tore her easily from her captor's grasping hands; his already notable physical strength was increased ten-fold with the wrath-fueled adrenaline that was pumping through his system. He set her down beside him, where she remained in a daze, still making those pitiable noises. _What the Hell did he do to her?_

"What the _fucking Hell_ do you think you're doing?" he borderline _screamed_ at the other man, a slender brunette who clothes looked like they had once been top-of the line but now looked washed-out and worn. The guy was obviously intoxicated – he could hardly stand without stumbling about like a newborn calf.

The man made a face resembling something like vexation. "Hey! That's _my_ Lizzie…" He reached for Tori's wrist again, but as he did Alfred stepped front of his shaken friend. Driven by instinct and the anger which was bubbling from an unidentifiable place from within him, Alfred drew back his arm, curled his fingers into a fist, and socked the other guy on the bridge of his nose.

There was an audible, sickening, grating _crunch_ as the man's glasses flew off, and he himself was thrown back onto the couch by the sheer force of the physical contact. The crowd roared with both jeers and calls of approval – most of them were too drunk to realize what had _really_ happened.

All of the eyes in the room were directed towards the furious little tussle. Everyone in attendance could smell a fight a mile away, and this one just so happened to be right in front of them. You could hardly call it fight, though - more like domination. The way that the other man failed to retaliate to Alfred's offense in anyway was just plain pathetic. He just sat there, holding his nose which was now gushing blood, looking completely dazed.

Suddenly, a woman emerged from the crowd, expression angry and concerned at the same time. "Rod!" she cried, looking at the man Alfred had just knocked on his ass. _What now?_

"Lizzie…?" the man, Rod, seemed completely bewildered. What happened next took everyone by complete surprise. Lizzie raised her hand and brought is down hard on his already bruised and bloodied face.

"You _prick_!" she berated. Those who were observing laughed at the lover's quarrel. Apparently ignoring the catcalls, Lizzie continued. Alfred maintained his protective stance in front of Tori, legs spread apart and one arm partially extended behind him; he watched, too.

"You drunken bastard!" Rod blinked confusedly at her angry words. "_How could you do this to me, Rod?_" She spun on her heel. "I'm leaving – don't follow me. I don't date men who mess around with other girls behind my back." And she stalked away, absorbed into the crowd, leaving Rod behind to face the ridicule.

Alfred frowned. _Well…that was…strange._ He turned his attention to Rod, eyes narrowed. "Get the fuck outta my house," he spat. "No one - and I mean _no one_ - touches this woman. Understand?"

He turned slightly. "Tori?" Alfred didn't get a reply; she was still gibbering in that perplexing tongue, staring out into space, face pale. "Tori?" he asked again, laying a hand on her shoulder. She drew back from his touch as if it felt like fire, her eyes widening and her skin losing its last traces of pallor. _Shit…what's wrong with her?_ The speed at which she spoke the strange words increased.

_It's not English…_he realized.

"…_neliesk manęs_, _neliesk manęs_…"

Alfred fixed Rod with a withering glare. "Stay here," he instructed brusquely. "I'll be back – I'm not finished with you yet." The man gave a weak nod in reply.

Alfred then gently scooped Tori into his arms, holding her moderately light weight rather easily. There was a moment where he was afraid she would struggle, given her previous reaction to his touch. But all Tori did was lay there, murmuring taking on a tone of defeat, gaze directed at something Alfred couldn't see. He felt her trembling.

"…_leiskite man eiti, leiskite man eiti, leiskite man eiti_..."

He started towards the kitchen, entertaining briefly the notion of putting her in his room, but decided that in her aggravated state – not to mention what had just happened to her – that would probably give Tori the wrong idea about his intentions. Hell, he didn't even know why she had reacted so extremely in the first place. _Why isn't she better now? I got her away from him. What did the bastard do?_

"…_prašome skauda man…"_

The crowd parted for him like he was Moses and they were the red sea, drinking up the spectacle as if it was a matinee at the cinema. And it was then that Alfred realized he wanted these people out of his house. He only even knew ten personally...or maybe two...

Suddenly the young man was disgusted with himself, and his surroundings. _What was I thinking? Leaving her all alone here…why am I throwing this party, with these people I hardly even know? How does putting myself in this situation make me feel, and how does it affect those who are around me…my friends..._

"…_aš noriu eiti namo_…"

The guests, having had their fill of nightly drama, were starting to dance across the living room floor again, the music back up to full blast from the band. The joviality around him felt so wrong. The last thing Alfred wanted to do at that moment was have good time, something he guiltily remembered telling the woman in his arms to do earlier that evening. _I…am an idiot. A huge one._

Then, out of the shadows, Josie appeared. "Alfred," she demanded, cheeks slightly flushed. "Would you mind informing me on just what the he'll is going on?" It took her a split second to notice who he was carrying bridal style. Her face seemed to close in on itself, eyes becoming barely visible slits, chin haughtily raised, and mouth bunching in displeasure.

"What's _her_ problem?" The question was accompanied by an accusingly pointing finger.

"…_prašau, prašau nustokite_…"

_Really?_ Alfred couldn't help but think, astonished at Josie's rather unsympathetic - even angered - demeanor. _What's _your_ problem, Josie?_ Wisely, he did not vent a single word of the contempt he felt at the moment for himself, his actions, and surprisingly for his fiancée.

"I helped her, and now I'm taking her to her room," he explained curtly with a small nod in the direction of his destination. "I'll be right back."

"…_Dieve gelbėk mane_…"

Josie did not heed his unspoken wishes, following him as he progressed along his way. "You should fire her," she sniffed. "She is becoming quite the embarrassment."

Alfred whirled on her in exasperated shock. He didn't want to believe he'd just heard what he thought he did. "_What_!"

Josie shrugged nonchalantly. "Fire her. If she's going to react like this every time some guy lays a hand on her, it's her own fault." Alfred stared at his fiancée, shocked. Then, slowly, he processed her words, putting them together like puzzle pieces with the events of the night. When the puzzle was complete, the picture as a whole was very disconcerting. _Please, please, please…_

"…_noriu išvykti_…"

"Wait…," Alfred pondered aloud, suspicious and uncertain at the same time. _Forget what I said earlier about Tori being light – my arms feel like snapping off!_ Her weight was beginning to tax the muscles in his shoulders, arms, and even his back after holding her for such an extended amount of time. "How did _you_ know it was a guy?" Josie had been back here the whole time, or so he thought…

_What is going on?_

Josie's countenance of disdain slipped, for just a moment, and Alfred saw she realized she had made a mistake. "I - ! Uh…well, see…," gone was the condescending tone, the uppity air. The woman was scrambling to patch up her alibi and her image, which was quickly becoming less-than-stellar in Alfred's opinion. "It was…a joke?" even _she_ didn't sound like she believed her own lie. Alfred had a bitter taste in his mouth, an uneasy feeling in his stomach – _I need to get out of here._ Josie kept on trying to salvage the situation. "See, I thought she looked lonely and that guy seemed like he was nice, so I –"

"…_ne skauda man_…"

He turned, not giving his fiancée a second glance. "Wait! Alfred!" He just barely felt the tips of her nails snag his sleeve, and then he was able to maneuver through the rest of the crowd. This time even Josie knew not to follow.

The young man finally entered the kitchen after finding his way out of the maze of human bodies; the space was relatively empty and more brightly lit – _Which is probably why it's empty_ – when compared to the rest of the estate. He felt around in his pocket or his skeleton key of the house, the one he'd used to lock his own bedroom door earlier.

Alfred walked Tori's room, almost cautiously, and carefully put her on the bed. She had stopped the disturbing mutterings, but the woman's face was still one of complete blankness. No emotion - not fear, sadness, or even personal awareness – was apparent on her suddenly delicate-seeming features. She was so motionless; she could have been a life-sized doll.

The only thing Alfred dared do in terms of undressing her was to slide the shoes off of her feet, lining them up carefully the door. He didn't even make an attempt at putting her underneath the covers. Alfred turned on a light, determined to try to get a response of any kind from his friend. _I can help, I know I can!_

"Tori," he said softly. _Maybe she'll talk now we're away from the party._ "Are you okay?" He raised a hand to tap her on the shoulder; she flinched as the shadow cast by his arm and the lamp flitted over her eyes. Alfred froze instantly, not wanting to trigger another episode of whatever the heck it had been...or was. He drew back, straightening and standing up.

He felt so awful…but why? Some of this was his fault; he was ready and willing to admit that - but it in no way merited feeling a level of self-loathing quite like this. Was it because she was his employee? His friend? The fact that it was his supposedly beloved _fiancée_ who had contributed to her misery? Whatever it was, Alfred wanted to atone for all of it.

"I'm so sorry about this, Tori," he apologized softly. _She can't even hear me._ "I really am sorry."

He waited a moment, but not reply came. She was still trapped in that terrifying little world he wasn't a part of. Alfred walked to the door slowly, hoping she'd snap out of it and give him her forgiveness. He opened the door at a snail's pace, closing it gently as to leave Tori undisturbed. He'd just have to check on her again in the morning; something which made Alfred feel very uncouth.

He stood there, outside of her door, eyes closed. He listened to the music, the people, the laughter in the other room. He wanted every single one of them gone - _now_. He was practically on auto-pilot by this point, marching up the band in almost a trance-like state and telling them to stop playing. He knew what he wanted and by God, Alfred F. Jones was going to get it. _I know what I have to do._

When the band stopped playing, it took his drunken guests a few minutes to realize that their endless supply of tunes and entertainment had trickled dry. They muttered and milled about, getting pissed off and thoroughly full of their needy little selves. Alfred clambered up onto a chair once he was sure he could get the majority of the crowd's attention.

"Everyone," he yelled, "GET OUT!" There were a few titters of laughter here and there – an intoxicated giggle. They didn't take him seriously. He'd been afraid this might happen. Alfred took a deep breath to calm himself – _Breathe…breathe…just keep your head._

"Go," he pointed in the direction of the door. "…or I'm calling the police." There was a moment's hesitation in the guests' part, many of them not really sure if he'd do it or not. There was the general rumble of unhappiness rolling through the room. How _dare_ he interrupt their partying? And it was _he_ who had invited them, no less!

"GO." He was serious; deathly so. First one person left, followed by another. And another. Soon the party-goers were leaving in a steady trickle of human bodies, vacating the premise before Alfred made good on his promise to bring the law down on their heads. They had no intentions of being rounded up in speakeasy raid tonight, no sir!

Alfred felt moderately pleased with himself once the last of them were gone, remaining on the chair like an intimidating statue – _At least I've done _something _right, tonight…_He hopped down from his perch, landing in the trash and refuse the now absent guests had left in their places – and was immediately ambushed by a certain enraged fiancée.

She looked nothing like the pretty young thing he'd been introduced to at that restaurant, what felt like so many months ago. Her hair was a mess, her make-up running, her face feral. "ALFRED!" she screeched. "_What_ are you _doing_!" Her hands were crooked and poised to strike, but Alfred stood tall and stared at her with a steady, calm demeanor to counter her own unhinged one. "Are you _trying_ to make me a friendless nobody? Tell me, because I'm curious - how am I supposed to socialize when you turn all of our guests out into the cold over a silly little _housekeeper_!"

"Josie," it was like a pitting of opposites, the two of them representing both extremes on a scale of reason and calm. "You're out of line." She looked almost ready to spit in his face. Alfred looked away, wanting to focus his attention on something else than the woman he was going to marry. "Where's that ass-wipe from before? I want to ask him a couple of questions."

"Don't change the subject!" she spat. "He's gone, right along with the rest of the God damned part, no thanks to _you_!"

He fixed her with a good long stare. "Listen to you," now his own voice was raising, bouncing off of the ceiling and around the room like an angry specter. "You sound like a child!"

She leveled her gaze, cold, empty…livid. "I'm not the only one," Josie spun on her heel, shoulders squared. "I'm sleeping alone tonight – feel free to make yourself at home on the couch." And with that said, his fiancée click-clacked her way down the hall and up the stairs, leaving him behind like a discarded piece of trash. Alfred bit his tongue to keep the words from spilling out; as much as he hated to keep his inner feelings suppressed, he knew he couldn't risk his one and only chance at remaining affluent.

_This is _my_ house! That is _MY _bed!_ Alfred closed his eyes, he thought calm thoughts - or tried too, at the very least. He did not make any move to follow Josie upstairs. If he did, that would be giving her the satisfaction of victory, and Alfred was much too stubborn to let _that_ happen.

Wearily, he shuffled over to a couch pushed up against the nearest wall and collapsed onto its cushions, head held in his hands. _This evening was a complete disaster…_

He'd let a friend get hurt. He'd discovered a dark, petty side to the woman he was spending the rest of his life with. He'd ruined his spotless reputation as a steadfastly easy-going host, and his house was completely trashed. _That never used to bother me before…_it was funny how in less than two months ones priorities could change so. He hadn't even realized just how much a dirty house would bother him until he was actually face to face with the carnage left over from his expelled guests. _And I'm not even the one who's going to be cleaning up…_

His thoughts turned to Tori, who was at this moment to victim of his own oversights. How could he ask her to clean all of this up in the morning? Doing that, if tonight hadn't already qualified, would be one dick move. He hauled himself to his feet, and started clearing away the mess right by his feet, expanding from there. The work wasn't fun, but he hadn't really been expecting it to be. He thought as he worked, about Tori, his father, Josie, and the events of the night. It was like trying to untangle a man-sized knot made of barbed wire. After about twenty minutes, his back and arms were incredibly sore, cramping and seizing, and he wasn't relishing the idea of picking up another bottle, or wiping up another puddle of puke.

Then, Alfred got an idea; the corners of his mouth twitched into a mischievous grin, and for the first time in the last few hours he began to feel a better. _That's perfect! _

Quietly, mindfully, he entered Tori's room. She was asleep, curled up into a little ball on the top of the covers. The color had returned to her face, and the shaking had stopped. _She looks…serene._ Alfred was relieved that she had been able to find some reprieve from her shell-shocked state through slumber, but…

_ What will she be like in the morning?_ Angry, confused? Would she want to quit? _God, I hope not._

Alfred took the alarm clock which resided on her bedside table, and stole away to the upstairs where he placed it carefully on the pillow right next to Josie's sleeping head – the very pillow his own head wouldhave been resting on. Neither woman would be very pleased when they woke, although for reasons so different it was almost amusing. It all worked out. Tori would get the extra rest Alfred was sure she needed, and Josie would be punished (a little, at least) for setting Tori up with a drunk man and being one of the main catalysts in this whole ordeal.

Exhausted, Alfred cast a glance at the grandfather clock in the hall on the way back to the living room. _Four twenty-four…_he got himself situated on the couch, hands being used as a pillow (there were actual pillows, somewhere, but he didn't feel like digging through the remaining dregs of the party to look for them), and willed himself to sleep.

**(A/N) **Hey guys, I'm so sorry this took so long! D; I really didn't mean for it to, but the holidays rolled around and then school started again with a vengeance. There was actually more to this chapter (probably another 10,000+ words), but writing it would mean making you wait even more :C So I hope you can forgive me…

Well, apologies aside, I have news! The brilliant and amazing **Schmo703529** has done me the courtesy of making a fanart of this very fanfic… :D No words/emoticons can contain my joy. _THANKS, SCHMO!_ XD This chapter's dedicated to you.

Alarm clocks were invented by this time. I know, I was surprised to! And then the whole "Prohibition" thing – to those of you who may not know, there was a period in American history when the government thought it'd be a peachy idea to outlaw all alcoholic beverages in the United States. What they were thinking, I have no idea O_O

Consider this my Valentine's Day gift to you all ^_^ You know this past New Year's Eve marks _exactly_ my introduction to Hetalia? I've been a fan for one year! :D

(Psst…guess the three Hetalia cameos in this chapter. I'll give you a prize.)

Sincerely and with mucho love,

Vots :)

**Dictionary: **(TASTE THE FOREIGN - …***cough***…I mean, _rainbow_ )

**Leiskite man eiti **– let me go in Lithuanian

**Neliesk manęs** – don't touch me

**Prašome skauda man **– please don't hurt me

**Aš noriu eiti namo **– I want to go home

**Prašau, prašau nustokite **– please, please stop

**Dieve gelbėk mane **– God, save me

**Noriu išvykti **– I want to leave


	11. Chapter 9

**Lessons in Housekeeping** – Chapter 8

**DISCLAIMER:**__I do not own Hetalia

**The next morning…**

_Urgh..gah!_ _What is that? _Tiesa was brought back into the world of the living by a rather disruptive beam of early afternoon light which was lancing through her windowpane and right across her face. It took a few minutes for all of her senses to come back; first a vague feeling of self-awareness, then her hearing, and finally her eyesight. She blinked in rapid succession, her mouth very dry and bitter. Her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth - she was dehydrated.

Her bed didn't feel right; she shifted herself into a slight sitting position and looked down. _Oh. That would probably be why…_

Tiesa frowned, fingering the sleeve of her blouse. _Why am I still fully clothed? …And on top of my sheets, for that matter?_ Another thought dawned on her still sleepy brain.

_Wait – why am I even waking up this late in the first place?! Where the Hell is my clock!_

She sat up even further, alarmed. Every morning Tiesa got up promptly at six in order to brew coffee and make breakfast for the household. And here she was, still in bed, at..._I really need to find that clock. _She had to get up and see to Alfred – what if he needed something? What if he was angry with her for sleeping in so late? She swung her legs off the side of the bed, realizing as her feet made contact with the cold wooden floor that she wasn't wearing any shoes.

It was during her attempt to get up she discovered a slight pounding in her head, a general all over ache which permeated her skull…and the faint bruise on her wrist. _What?_ Then it all came rushing back, so vividly and so quickly Tiesa almost literally lost her breath. She sat back down on the bed, suddenly tired again. A heavy feeling made itself comfortable in her chest.

She could recall almost everything, from the way the beer had tasted to her panic when Rod wouldn't let go. She could remember the resurfacing of it. Tiesa closed her eyes, breathing deep and slow as she felt her heart rate pick up. _No…no. Don't think about it._ Gradually she coached herself down from the impending hysteria, banishing every thought which would have unlocked her Pandora's Box of repressed experiences.

"Tori?" Alfred's voice was softer sounding than usual, accompanied by a light knocking on the door. "You awake yet?"

"Yes, I'll be right out!" _What should I say about what happened? I can't explain…_Tiesa sighed as she heaved herself off of the bed. _I'll wait and see what he says – take it from there._

She quickly peeled off her day-old clothes, buttoned up a fresh blouse, slid into a new skirt. She brushed out her sleep-matted braid, making sure to neatly re-plait it once all of the tangles were removed. Tiesa slipped on her shoes, situating her necklace underneath the collar of her shirt as she did so.

The young woman was dreading going out into the kitchen, abandoning the safe and isolated confines of her little room. What would she find when she went out there? A mess, no doubt - a mess she'd have to clean. Alfred and Miss Josephine probably weren't very happy she'd slept in, additionally. Would she be reprimanded? Finally treated like the hired help she was?

Taking a deep breath, Tiesa gathered her sensibility and opened the door. Taking a step out of the room, she –

"AH!" …ran straight into Alfred. The young man scrambled away from her, eyes wide as if expectant, or fearful.

"I'm sorry, Tori," he winced. "I didn't hurt you, did I? Because if I did…"

"No, no," Tiesa assured him. "It was only a little scare…" _little_ scare? Her heart felt like a hammer, pounding away in her chest. _Get a hold of yourself! _"I'm sorry I've woken up so late," she went on to apologize, getting it out of the way before she lost her nerve. "…but I seem to have misplaced my alarm clock…"

Alfred relaxed a little, a mischievous glint shining in his eyes. "Yeah," he nodded. "That's because I took it."

Tiesa blinked. She furrowed her brows and raised a questioning finger. "You…?" _Why on earth would he take my clock!? _Had she even heard that right?

He nodded, sticking his hands in his pockets and shrugging his shoulders, slightly abashed but still very matter-of-fact. "I figured you'd want to sleep after what happened last night…"

Tiesa bit her lip, suddenly embarrassed. _Oh God, what happened? I can't remember anything after…well…_after she'd gotten tangled in the occurrences of the past, all other events of the evening had been wiped from her memory as if they'd never happened. She could have danced on tabletops until the sun came up, or spent the entire evening curled up in a corner after she'd encountered Rod. All Tiesa knew for sure was somehow she'd ended up back in her room, and she probably hadn't ended up there on her own accord.

Oblivious to the young woman's internal scavenger hunt for her lost recollections, Alfred continued. "…and our very own little Miss Josie needed to get up early this morning."

"What do you - ?" her question was interrupted by the furious whirlwind that was Miss Josephine.

The young woman stomped into the kitchen, short hair bedraggled and flying every which way. This was the most un-put together Tiesa had ever seen Josephine, and frankly it was rather startling. In the other woman's arms was a bag full of what appeared to be empty beer bottles. She was still in her embroidered silk morning robe and slippers, her eyes alight with malice despite the bags under them.

"This work is insufferable, Alfred," she snarled, tossing the bag to the floor. "Why the Hell are you making me do this?"

Alfred leaned against the counter. He was fully clothed and looked…almost like he was secretly enjoying this. But then again Tiesa might be assuming too much.

"Oh, come on, Josie," he picked up an apple and gave it a toss, not making eye contact with his fiancée. "The party was your idea to begin with. I don't think we should wake tori just to clean your mess."

Josephine gave him a look that might have withered even Felicja. Then she turned it towards Tiesa, regreatabbly. Tiesa winced. _Here comes that scolding I was worried about…_

"She's sure as Hell awake _now_, Alfred, dearest," the words were venom. And Tiesa felt very much the hapless prey.

"Ah, Miss Josephine," she began to reach for an apron, kept in the cabinet outside her quarters. "I'd be happy to help you – "

Alfred put a firm hand on the cabinet, preventing her access. "Can't let ya, Tori. You're not allowed to clean today."

"W-what?"

Josephine's complexion was getting splotchy, and more so by the second. "WHAT?! _It's her job_."

"Pardon? Not until you apologize," Alfred took a bite out of the apple, one hand still on the cabinet. Probably because Tiesa was still vainly trying to get it open. At least, until her employer's conversation took a turn that piqued her awareness. _Apologize? What?_

Josephine sucked in her cheeks exasperatedly. "Why, whatever for?"

"You know what for, Josie."

There was a moment of complete stillness in the room, all present parties watching the other. It wasn't broken until Josephine sighed, and shifting her gaze to the floor, put her hands on her hips. When she finally looked Tiesa in the eyes, the malice was gone from her hungover gaze and she was smiling in a saccharine, ladylike manner.

"I'm sorry I tried to fix you up with a drunk guy," she said. Tiesa's throat closed up, her ears beginning to ring. "In my defense, I thought he was completely sober. And I'm sorry he accidentally – " Josephine shot a neutral look at Alfred "- freaked you out...or something."

It took Tiesa a moment to get her bearings. "So, that's what happened?" Her voice was more even than she felt. "Don't blame yourself, Miss Josephine. You had only the best of intentions." Even saying that much made her want to throw up. She wasn't sad, or hurt, or anything as such. Tiesa was livid; it took all her self-control to maintain an aura of professionalism.

Josephine made noise that could have been derision, or perhaps something else. Anyhow it didn't sound either gracious or apologetic. "Thank you, Tammy," she sniffed before sweeping out of the room with the dramatic flair she so very much loved to use.

Tiesa took a brief moment to shift her focus from her anger to the matters at hand – like her job, for instance. Anger could wait until she was alone in her quarters for the evening.

She turned to Alfred. "Am I still allowed to cook?" She asked with an unbidden half-smile.

Alfred shrugged. "It's your call. Though I could make some eggs…I think…maybe…if you don't want too?"

Tiesa felt that he really meant it, but she also didn't really feel like eating half-cooked scrambled eggs for the rest of the day. She started making a quick, easy meal – sandwiches – despite Alfred's protests.

"I mean, really, it's not that hard to make a sandwich," he tried dissuading her. "I could do it."

"Mr. Jones, it's really no trouble."

"_Alfred_, remember?"

"Force of habit."

Sandwiches were indeed simple, but she couldn't help but notice Alfred's lingering gaze – not in a dirty way, more like a protective default. He flinched with every clink of silverware on china, every cupboard door closing. He slowly sidled around the kitchen, shadowing her as she prepared the meal. Perhaps it was the events of the previous night, or the fact she was already angry, but Tiesa was finding his hyper-awareness irritating.

"If you're so worried about your china, I could use different plates," she said lightly, trying to turn it into a joke.

Alfred visibly reddened. He cleared his throat. "No, no it's nothing like that…" he trailed off, apparently embarrassed at having been caught out. "I could care less about china plates, honestly."

She nodded and went back to preparing the food, feeling his eyes on her. Worried about plates or no, he didn't look or act any less anxious. When Tiesa couldn't reach a jar of unopened olives, he grabbed it before she came back with the stepping stool. And when she got the vegetables out of the ice box for salad, he was already holding the knife and cutting board.

"I can cut the vegetables," he offered, hopefully.

Tiesa raised an eyebrow. This wasn't very Alfred-like behavior. At all.

"What's this about?" she asked, pulling out the meat. Though she had a hunch she already knew. And she was cursing both herself and Josephine for it. The last thing she needed right now was to be treated like the shrinking violet she was attempting not to be.

"Uh...," Alfred shifted his feet. "It's…"

"I'm not made of glass, Alfred," she admonished softly. Tiesa gently took the knife from his hand, handle first, and set it on the counter beside the cutting board, blade facing inwards. "Why don't you go help Miss Josephine? Lunch will be ready for both of you in a few minutes."

_And it would have been done a lot sooner with no one underfoot._

"Aren't you eating here?" His expression was quizzical and faintly alarmed. "You _are_ eating, aren't you?"

"I'm just going in to town to run some errands," she pulled out the kettle to heat up some water. "I'll have lunch with Felicja while I'm there." She wanted to minimize her interactions with Miss Josephine for the time being; she didn't want to do anything rash. And speaking of town… "Do you think you could make up a Christmas list for me? Things like food, decorations...? I need to know what we'll need for the holidays."

_That should distract him for a while._

And sure enough, it did. By the time the meal was done, Alfred had written down everything rather hastily on a half-sheet of paper. They made a trade – the shopping list and car keys for the sandwiches.

"Thank you, Alfred," she slipped on her shoes, and was reaching for her coat hanging by the servant's entrance. Alfred hovered beside her, deadest on seeing her out. He held the food awkwardly in his hands.

"Tori?"

"Yes?"

"...don't be too long."

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

He'd almost said, "Be safe," but decided not to at the last second. Of course she was going to be safe, it was just a run into town for groceries and Christmas necessities. And it was inappropriate as befitting their relationship, which was already awkward enough with Josephine here throwing off their balance. But somehow, Alfred still felt he should have said it. He really did care about her safety.

He had wanted to ask her about what had happened last night, but he couldn't muster the courage. He didn't want to make her angry; she hadn't given any indication of wanting to talk about it, so he hadn't pressed. He didn't want to make her go into any sort of relapse. Maybe she couldn't remember?

He bit his tongue in frustration and walked to where Josephine was begrudgingly cleaning up. Alfred had been more annoying than he intended when Tori was making lunch, hovering over her like that. She was perfectly capable of looking after herself, he just couldn't shake this worried feeling. Setting her in her bed last night after the episode, he had to force himself to leave her alone in the room.

_Come back to Earth, Alfred._

He handed Josephine her plate and sat down. She picked up the sandwich with two fingers and inspected it. "Did Talia make this?"

Alfred nodded, trying to keep conversation to a minimum. He still couldn't bear to look Josephine full on in the face. "Tori made them."

"If she can cook, why can't she clean? She's ruining my complexion." Josephine let the sandwich drop back onto the plate. "Did you watch her make them?"

"…Does it matter?" He picked at his side salad. He really didn't want to listen to his fiancée talk about his friend right now. He thought about Tori, putting her coat and shoes on at the door. He'd told her she was free to use the main entrance when she started working, but she insisted on using the servants' door.

"She could have put something in it."

Alfred snorted with derision. "Tori wouldn't do that."

"How do you know?"

He frowned, glaring at her. "Because she's my friend, Josephine. Maybe if you'd start treating her like a human being you wouldn't have to worry about people messing with your food."

"Tch," Josephine dumped the contents of the plate into a garbage bag, then sat back to nurse her coffee. "Did you watch her –"

"_Yes_, I watched her make the goddamn coffee. But only because I was there, talking to her, like a friend does, not because I don't trust her," he snapped.

This side of Josephine was new to him. He'd begun to gather she liked to put on a bit of a show, but whether it was to keep her fortune or to keep him interested he didn't really care. She was incredibly fake. And if this was the real her, well then…

_I should have paid more attention to her personality than to her assets. Then maybe I would have been a little more prepared._

But there was only so much preparing one could do for a toxic personality who liked to put friends in dangerous situations for fun. He had to spend the rest of his life with this woman, the one sitting across from him taking tentative sips of most-certainly-not-poisoned coffee. A familiar feeling came over him then, one of struggling, of helplessness. He felt his life was just something he couldn't control anymore, not since his marriage was arranged. And for what? A nice house and some money?

_Lord, help me..._

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Tiesa held the wrinkled list in her gloved fingers. Written on it were things like ham, popped corn, cranberries, candles, tinsel...it made her think of the holidays she used to spend with her family. The cold wind blew through the streets, but she hardly felt it for all the people pressing up against her. All the holiday shoppers were out, carrying both food and toys in their arms.

She was standing in front of the tailor shop, looking through the display window. Lunch with Felicja had been a lie. It was the energetic woman's day off, and the only reason Tiesa was spending time near her workplace was because she'd seen some nice-looking pocket squares inside. Window shopping was the easiest kind. There was a crimson pocket square, folded neatly for display with a golden pin in the center, that she imagined herself buying and presenting to Alfred.

She sighed.

_Another life. One with someone who isn't engaged._

She turned to continue on her way to the butchers shop, but for the second time that day, ran straight into someone. She was knocked to the ground, the cold and wet seeping through the seat of her coat. Tiesa looked up, blinking, at the huge panic-stricken figure blocking out the sunlight. She got up and snatched the list off the ground before the damp made the ink run.

"I'm sorry," she said, brushing herself off. The man was frozen in place, having not moved since they collided. He was young-looking. She looked closer. "I didn't hurt you, did I? Sir?"

The man seemed to break out of his trance. "…No. Not at all." His speech was incredibly stiff. "Are you alright, miss?"

Tiesa smiled. "Yes, I apologize. The fault is all mine. I was caught up in the holiday shopping and wasn't looking where I was going."

The man wasn't meeting her gaze. He absolutely towered over her. His face was handsome, but a little gruff looking. He began to walk away. "None taken. Have a good –"

"Have we met before?" Something in the back of her mind was just itching…she couldn't place his face. There was something familiar…

"...No," his eyes were wide.

"Are you sure? It's the strangest thing..."

"Miss, I need to get going."

"Oh! Oh, sorry. I apologize for the inconvenience."

Tiesa continued down the sidewalk towards the butcher shop, trying to remember where she heard that voice, seen that face...

_I could have sworn I knew him from somewhere...but you think I'd remember meeting someone as tall as his is...strange._

But as strange at the encounter was, she already found it fading from memory as she went about the errands. A meaningless encounter. She was certain of it.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

"Fuck, Fuck, Fuck," Demyan muttered as he shouldered past shoppers, trying to put as much distance between him and the tailor shop as possible. He was trying to look natural, but his harried appearance and towering height made that feat hard to accomplish.

He had blown it. And he'd blown it big time

It had been a normal day thus far; waking up in his rented room, scanning the paper, checking in with and reporting his previous days findings back to headquarters. Then breakfast in the back booth of the diner downstairs, and driving his newly purchased car up into the woods by the Kirkland Estate. Binoculars and a notepad were his only company. He'd been here two weeks, and he had yet to get a look in at the woman Josie had told him about. Then she'd left by herself, and he'd seized his opportunity to trail her.

He'd been walking past her on the street, trying to get a good look at her face...and what a look he'd gotten. Conversation. He'd held a mother fucking conversation with his goddamn target. So much for professionalism. But now the primary question remained; was it her? Two weeks trailing this dame and he had yet to gain confirmation that she was, in fact, Tori Laurinaitė. Josie's word alone was good enough for Demyan.

It was, however, nowhere near as satisfactory for Mr. Braginki. For Ivan.

Demyan shivered, walking into the diner he currently resided over. The man insisted on being called that, but when would he realize his whole persona just seemed down right unnatural? That was why no one talked to him, or more to the point particularly liked him. Demyan had yet to see the guy go bat shit insane, but he'd heard stories. And he'd seen what he'd done to guys when he was completely lucid, if he ever was. Word in the lower ranks of the business was Master Ivan was planning a coup to take over the family business, wrest it from his uncle's grip in one fell swoop.

_And here I am, running around after a woman of questionable identity like an errand boy._

He ordered a whisky on the rocks and turned his thoughts to something no less disturbing. That woman - had it been her? His face to face contact with her had always been so brief, even though he'd been stationed at headquarters the same time she'd been working there. He tried not to acknowledge or give notice of domestic workers too much; he barely made any more than they did, and yet there he stood like their goddamned superior. It made him uncomfortable to wield power over other people.

_It could be her_, he reasoned...if her face was a little leaner with age, her hair a little longer…_ bullshit - women stopped growing sooner than guys did, she still looked barely out of her teens._

But, at the same time, how could he be sure? He had only seen the girl's face for a few fleeting memorable seconds, and he really didn't want to remember those moments in particular anyway. He couldn't walk up to the woman he had been told was the right girl and say "Are you, by any chance, Tori Laurinatė?"

What if she wasn't? Or even worse, what if she was? A guy lookin' like him guessin' some dames name out of nowhere, and any sensible lady would have the law hiding his ass faster than the eye could blink.

He nursed his whisky. He didn't even want to turn her in. He didn't think he could put someone through that kind of hell. But what choice did her have? He couldn't back out now. Both his and Josie's necks were on the line, whether the latter realized it or not. And she didn't even know he was in town.

It was going to be a miserable Christmas.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_The sun was shining brightly, warming the sand of the glittering beach. Alfred jumped in the surf, laughing and playing as the weak current tugged at his legs. He was happy. Mom and Dad were holding hands on the shore behind him, he'd found a big shell to keep…what was that? There was something in the water, bobbing up and down in the waves. He was ecstatic, overjoyed to have found something new and exciting. He swan out to it, turned it over and then Matthieu was looking at him with dead eyes, flesh turning green and water streaming from decayed nostrils and eye sockets, opening his mouth full of crumbling teeth to say something and then -_

Alfred woke with a gasp and a start, breathing heavily. His nightclothes stuck to him, damp with sweat. The sheets were twisted mercilessly around his legs, cutting off his circulation. He kicked them off with a little more fervor than needed. He hadn't had that dream in a while. It used to frequent his nights constantly, especially right after Matthieu had died. He hadn't endured it's terrors in years. Why tonight?

_Goddamn that fucking dream._

He rubbed at his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he looked over, Josephine was still asleep, her head sandwiches between a pillow and the mattress. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep. He knew from experience he'd be up the rest of the night, his brother's dead eyes watching him whenever he closed his eyelids.

He got out of bed, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him, and made his way downstairs. Maybe he'd scrounge around in the pantry for a bit, stoke up the fire so Tori wouldn't have to when she got up. He rounded the corner to the kitchen, and was surprised to see his friend sitting at the kitchen table. There was an oil lamp in front of her, a book propped up on her lap.

"Little early to be up reading, don't you think?"

Tori visibly jolted upwards. "_Jesus, Mary, and _–!"

"Sorry, sorry," Alfred suppressed some laughter. "I didn't mean to scare you..."

Tori sat back down shaking her head and smiling, closing her book. "I could say the same of you, Alfred. Why are you up this early?"

He scuffed the floor with a bare foot, shrugging. "Uh...," he cleared his throat. "Just a dream, you know. Not that it scared me or anything, I just can't get back to sleep now...you?"

There was a hesitant pause on her part, then, "...Same here."

Alfred took a seat next to her. He had never seen her dressed in so little before; just a simple nightgown. Her hair was loose, waving over her shoulders and catching the rays of the lamp. In the low light he could just make out the title of the book, engraved in the leather spine with scrolling gold letters; _Grimm's Fairy Tales_. Cinderella, Rumplestiltskin, Snow White… He felt a lurch in his chest, a tightening of his windpipe that was completely unrelated to thoughts of his family.

"That's not the best thing to be reading if you don't want to have nightmares," he poked fun at her. "My mom used to read me and my brother to sleep with that book. It terrified him."

Tiesa grinned in that subtle way she had; more with her eyes than with her mouth. "And not you?"

"Nah. I was the bravest three-year-old you've ever seen."

They laughed a little, then it petered off into more silence.

"I mean, it really is stupid," Alfred continued. "The dream, I mean. It always starts out the same. I'm walking down the beach and then..." He hesitated before saying the next part. "Do you ever wish you could go back and change the past?"

Tori thought about it, turning it over in her mind for a while before answering.

"I think everyone does at some point. It's natural."

Alfred shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "God...do you want some coffee?"

Tori raised her eyebrows. "That depends. Do you know how to make it?"

"Uhh…"

"Come on, I'll show you."

Little did he know it was at that moment exactly Tori got an idea, one which concerned Alfred himself and the contents of the attic. Instead, he spent until dawn learning about the intricacies of making coffee - and good stuff, at that. Then after coffee, it was poached eggs and French toast. By the time Josephine trudged downstairs at eleven, an entire breakfast feast had been put out on the table.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_**Christmas 1925, the Virginia Kirkland Estate**_

Things on the Kirkland Estate gradually grew more and more festive as Christmas drew near. Alfred surprised the women of the household with a pine tree not long after the incident at the party. Predictably one of them was more enthused than the other. Cranberries, popped corn, candles, and tinsel were all strung up in the tree's fresh-smelling branches. When Tiesa asked him where he got it, Alfred said he would rather not say and they left it at that (although she did notice, on her drives into town from then on, that one of the neighbors' backyards seemed to be missing something rather tree-like). Josephine took Alfred caroling with some friends she had who lived in Maryland, and occasionally Alfred would try to convince his fiancée to go walk in the snow with him that had accumulated on the estate.

She was serving Alfred and Josephine their morning coffee by the fire two days before Christmas when he asked her, "Hey, Tori, what's Christmas like with your family?"

She shrugged, putting a warm cup of blonde coffee – three sugars, half cream – down in front of a rather comatose Josephine. "Rather like Christmas here, but with its own special twists I would imagine – there's your coffee, Miss Josephine – I wouldn't really know. I've never had an American-style Christmas."

Alfred leaned back in his chair. "Really? I have an idea."

Josephine rolled her eyes. "Oh, darling, another one?"

He ignored her, much to Tiesa's secret delight. "Since I showed you Kirkland traditions for Thanksgiving, why don't we give you a turn and you show us Laurinatė Christmas traditions?"

She smiled, bemused that he assumed Laurinatė was her family name. While it was, it was in the feminine unmarried form. "Are you sure, Alfred? I wouldn't want to impose…" She looked at Josephine who seemed infinitely more interested in her drink than the conversation.

"Nah, we'd be perfectly fine with it. Right, Josie?"

"Hm," Josephine hummed.

And so Christmas Eve was spent spreading a tablecloth over the big oaken monstrosity in the dining room, with hay sprinkled over the top. Alfred was full of questions, and Tiesa patiently and willingly answered each one.

"What's the hay for?"

"It represents the manger Jesus was laid in."

"There's only three of us, why the extra plates?"

"I figured to set one out for Mister Kirkland and General Hughes. That's what you do when a family member can't make it to Christmas Eve dinner."

"Put one out for your family, go on, I insist. What're we having?"

"Fish, cranberry pudding, bread, potatoes, mushroom dumplings, and soup."

His questions amused her to no end. Alfred was so quizzical; usually he didn't even acknowledge the fact that she wasn't a true-born American citizen, like Josephine loved to do. The sudden interest in her Lithuanian culture was surprising, but a nice change. She liked being able to share things about herself with him, and was eager to supply him answers to his queries. Dinner was a quiet and enjoyable affiar, with everyone taking a little bit of every dish. Josephine didn't even complain – tremendously, at least.

Afterwards the party of three found themselves situated around the tree by the fireplace. Tiesa was standing to the side, dutiful and silent, waiting for her services to be called upon. Then Josephine handed her a small box.

"Here."

"Oh! Miss Josephine, thank you…but you shouldn't have. You didn't need to get me anything." She looked at the box with both surprise and apprehension. It was completely unexpected, and completely out of character. Inside was a rather underwhelming necklace with a broken clasp.

Josephine waved a hand absently, holding a glass of sherry in the other. "It was no trouble. It's one of my older pieces. Don't worry about it, Tina."

Then she pulled another small box from under the tree and handed it to Alfred. Inside was a gold pocket watch. "A family heirloom," she purred. "So we can count every minute together, darling..."

Alfred smiled. "Thank you, Josie."

Tiesa watched passively, but she couldn't deny that a pang of jealousy went through her when Alfred put it in his pocket.

_He prefers wrist watches, anyway._

Then it was Alfred's turn to give his gift – another small box. Josephine unwrapped it – a wedding ring nestled inside a velvet jewelry pouch. Tiesa peered over her shoulder to get a look at the ring; the band was silver, and there was one diamond set in the center. She had never personally known someone with a diamond in their wedding ring; her own mother had never even had one.

"Oh, Alfred...it's...it's...," Josephine was reaching for words.

_Beautiful..._Tiesa couldn't help thinking, but didn't dare say. The diamond reflected the firelight, a thousand reflections dancing in its center. The silver band was thin and delicate – elegant.

"It was my mother's," Alfred told them, looking at it. Tiesa could detect the slightest hint of pride in his voice. She would have been prideful, too, were her mother rich and tasteful enough to purchase a piece of jewelry such as this.

Josephine turned it over in her hand, inspecting it. "Is it missing a stone? It's so small…"

Alfred spoke quietly, "No. That's the way it is."

The woman pursed her lips. "Oh...I'll just put it right here then...until I get it sized. Thank you, darling." She pecked him on the lips and set the jewelry pouch on the coffee table. Getting up, Josephine stretched languidly, once again paying Tiesa no mind. "I'm going to bed. Come join me, Alfred."

Tiesa's stomach clenched, and she began to gather up the paper scattered on the floor, assuming Alfred would take the invitation to share Josephine's bed.

_ It'll just have to wait until tomorrow._

Alfred leaned forward and pocketed the wedding ring. "Maybe later, Josie. I'm going to stay up a while."

"If you insist," Josephine swaggered away and up the stairs. Tiesa couldn't believe it; she could do it tonight after all. Once Josephine was safely gone and the room had been cleared on debris, Tiesa presented herself before her employer. He had been looking at the ring, turning it in his fingers. He glanced up, expectant and smiling tiredly.

_Maybe this wasn't a good idea…_

"Need something?" he asked her.

_No going back now._

"I...Alfred, I got you something."

"Gah!" He looked horrified. "Tori! I told you, you didn't have to! Believe me, I've got enough crap as it is. Was it because Josephine gave you something? Because I had no idea –"

"No, no," she cut him off, eager. " Just hear me out." She hurried from the parlor to her quarters, grabbing the worn little box she had stuffed underneath her bed. She presented it to him proudly.

"There you are," she said as she handed it over, grinning wildly. She took a seat beside him, a good arm's length away.

Alfred shook his head with a laugh. "Well I'll admit, you've piqued my interest." He carefully untied the twine holding it closed and bent back the lid. He stared. He shifted his gaze from the box to Tiesa, from Tiesa to the box, and back again. Inside were some old photographs, a woman's ornate decorative hair comb, a pretty broach, and a little white stuffed bear in addition to some children's books among a small variation of some other small toys like yoyos and spinning tops.

"Tori...," he picked up the bear. She steeled herself for reprimand.

_I've finally done it. I've crossed a line, haven't I?_

Alfred continued, "I...I thought he'd thrown it all away..."

And that was when Tiesa knew she'd been right. "It's hard to let go of the past," she told him. "I was reorganizing up in the attic about a month ago and found these. Then you expressed your desire to change things in the past, and well...I thought I might as well bring the past to you. You can't change it, but you _can_ remember the good things."

He held the ring and bear in his hands for a while, staring at them intently. Studying them in silence. Tiesa let him have his moment, watching the shadows cast by the fire morph his expression into something that seemed almost like sadness.

"It's an arranged marriage you know," he said, finally, after a while.

"W-what?"

"This thing between me and Josephine. It's a last-ditch ploy by our parents to make us take some responsibility – so we learn how to behave ourselves. He threatened to cut me off, if I didn't do it. And the worst part? It's working. Somehow, this horrible woman is making me a better person."

Tiesa was stunned. Out of all the things she had been expecting Alfred to say, this was not one of them. She didn't know quite what to say. "I'm sure your father means well at heart…" she began.

"I doubt he's ever cared."

Tiesa moved closer, feeling helpless. She had a great relationship with her own parents – Alfred's situation was one with which she had little experience. So she felt around within her for what seemed right to say, and said it.

"I'm sure he does – it's just been so long, he doesn't know how to express it the way he wants."

Alfred held the ring up to the firelight once more, engrossed by it.

"It's very beautiful," she told him, feeling like she could speak freely when it wasn't in Miss Josephine's hands.

He pocketed it. "Thank you…I thought this was the only thing he saved after she died...and all this time it's all just been sitting up in the attic!" He laughed, a mix of bitterness and relief. "Was there anything else?"

Tiesa nodded. "Yes, a lot."

Alfred grinned. "Great - I can't wait to go through it!"

There was some silence, then, both individuals caught up in their separate thoughts. It was peaceful. Tiesa had one question, ever since she'd found the boxes in the attic, and she figured now would be the time to ask it. She wanted to know more about the woman despite herself; the woman with the low-cut wedding dress and whose death was so traumatic all evidence of her existence had to be hidden away.

"Alfred - how did your mother die?"

It took him a while to answer, so long she was beginning to think he wouldn't.

"...She got sick. And then she was gone, just like Matthew was. But Matthew died first...his passing was hard on my parents' marriage."

Then he turned to her, head tilted to the side the way it did when he had something to ask. "What about you, Tori? Where are you from? This Christmas was the most interesting I've ever had; it's gotta be someplace neat."

Tori was about to break another one of her rules, she felt it. Before she could stop herself, she told him.

"I'm from Lithuania."

It was like some burden was lifted from her shoulders; some people would need to fear the loss of their jobs or pay cuts or even discrimination depending on where they came from. As a general rule to prevent this and to keep herself from getting too close to her employers, she typically didn't share her personal history.

"Lithuania? Where's that?"

"It's on the Baltic sea - right next to Russia."

Alfred was quiet for a moment, visualizing. "...What's it like?"

Tiesa looked up at the ceiling, calling on her memories of her childhood and early teen years. "A lot like Virginia, actually. We have heat in the summer, lots of snow in the winter...it's a lot flatter, though! We were able to grow lots of things, but then..."

Alfred nodded knowingly. "Shit happened?"

"Yes. I came over here to find work. I use half the money I earn to support my family."

"You're all alone over here?" He looked incredibly sad right there. She wanted to tell him that she had made a new family of sorts, in both him and Felicja, but she knew that would be entirely inappropriate.

"My mother, my father, my brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins...all are in Lithuania. I miss them."

"I know how you feel."

Tiesa then felt the familiar lump under blouse, resting just above her breasts. She withdrew her necklace and slide it over her head, showing it to him. She figured it was only fitting since she had seen his treasures, that he should see one of hers.

" My mother gave this to me before I left so I would remember her, and to sell, if I ever needed money."

"What's it made out of?" He was looking at it, gingerly prodding at it as it lay in her palm.

"Amber. It grows and hardens on trees – very, very old tree sap. Like…like a rock"

"…fossilized?"

"Yes! That's the word."

Alfred looked a little closer, then his eyes lit up with recognition. "Oh, I remember, you were wearing that at thanksgiving, weren't you?"

"I wear it all the time," she informed him.

He looked at her then, and she felt…nice. This was a sort of looking that felt private, but exhibitionary at the same time. She averted her gaze, slightly flustered.

_Get ahold of yourself!_

"Tori...I don't know how to thank you."

"Then don't. The happiness of a friend is a gift in itself."

He chewed on his lip for a moment, then glanced up. An epiphany.

"...When's your birthday?"

"Oh, Alfred, please, you don't need to –"

"I'll find out. That's a promise," he was grinning mischievously.

Tiesa cleared her throat, eager to shift the focus of attention. "Hm...it's getting late. I should be going to bed soon. I need to get up so I can go meet Felicja for Christmas lunch."

She got up and began to walk away.

"Tori, wait," he said. She turned, and then he was there. She could feel the residual warmth from the fire radiating off of his sweater. He smelled like home-cooking and smoke and cologne – good smells.

"I _do _want to thank you for this. It's the best present I've ever received. May I have your permission to kiss your hand?"

"_What_?! Why?"

"Do I have it, or not?"

Tiesa could hear her heartbeat in her ears. This couldn't be happening. It wasn't real. But somehow she summoned the words and she said them.

"…You have it."

He gently took her hand, the first time she could remember since Thanksgiving. He looked her in the eyes the entire time, and gently pressed his lips to her skin. It tingled where their bodies met in a wonderful way, one she had never known before. Then it was over and her hand was once more hanging by her side.

"Good night, Tori."

"Good night, Alfred."

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

"It's a _WHAT_?" Felicja's scream pierced her eardrum.

"Shhh, keep it down...," she motioned for her friend to keep her voice down. They were helping clean up after Christmas luncheon at Joseph's parent's house. Over the course of the stay, Tiesa had been formerly introduced to no less than five eligible male members of his family. Not that any of them really caught her fancy.

"This is _PERFECT_, Esa! She's a bitch, he hates her, and the marriage is arranged! Make your move _now_!" the blonde was practically vibrating with excitement. Tiesa wouldn't have been surprised if her hastily set hairpins went shooting around the tiny kitchen.

"I can't do that," she insisted quietly, trying to maintain an air of normalcy by grabbing a plate to dry. The two of them were beginning to attract attention.

Felicja rolled her eyes and slumped against the sink, getting the front of her holiday dress sopping wet. She didn't seem to notice. "Oh god, are you still –"

"Even if I did like him – and I _don't_ – he couldn't be interested in me without getting his inheritance revoked..."

Felicja snorted, dumping a handful of silverware into the sudsy water. "Pft! Like, who's the old windbag gonna give it to otherwise? It's not like he has another kid stashed away, someplace, somewhere, somehow." She began scrubbing with fervor – Felicja did everything with fervor.

"Can we stop talking about this? _Please_?"

The blonde whipped a soapy hand out of the sink and bopped Tiesa firmly on the nose.

"Ow!"

"Oh no, _no_. I'm going to talk about this until you _FINALLY GET THE CHICK BALLS TO ASK HIM OUT_."

If there was a solitary soul in that five foot by five foot kitchen that hadn't been giving them the hairy eyeball before, they certainly were now. Tiesa could feel the curious stares of at least ten people. She hunched her shoulders and told herself dishes were the most interesting thing in the world, and nothing could tear her attention away from them.

"Girls don't ask guys out…" she muttered.

"I asked Joseph out. He said yes."

"That's different."

"Different _how_, though? Tell me. Tell me now."

"Felicja can you just let me enjoy the day?"

Felicja sighed loudly. "Fine! But you can bet your perky ass I'm going to be bringing this up again before New Year – I'm not going to let true love slip through my best friends fingers!" Then she picked up a stash of dishes and walked out to redistribute them in time for desert.

Tiesa shook her head – true love?

_Now there's an entertaining thought. She listens to too many radio programs._

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_**New York, Braginski Estate**_

Christmas had always been his favorite holiday. But he didn't celebrate it when everyone else did. He was the only member of his remaining family who had Christmas on the 7th of January. The others held theirs on the 25th. Every year they asked him to take part, and every year he sat in his room, lights out and curtains drawn, until it was over. Eventually they just stopped asking.

Ivan gingerly removed the sunflowers from their vase in the window. He lifted one with browning petals to his nose, its pungent scent reminding him of running through the family garden with his sweet sisters. He walked slowly across the room and lit a lamp.

His family was weak. They had lost touch with their roots a long time ago. He was the only strong one left, the only one who could take up the mantle that his grandfather had started in the old country. Ivan was the only one who remembered where he came from. That was why the family empire was crumbling; his father had spoken true when he said it was a miracle Ivan's uncle hadn't been disposed of by a more ambitious family member.

Until now.

The business had been neglected. It needed a savior – a reformer. And Ivan, a prodigy of his grandfather and own father, was the self-given heir to that seat. He had carefully accrued his power, plying with pressure and pain where needed, giving favors and gifts when deserved. He was successfully running his own kingdom within an empire. And that kingdom was outgrowing its boundaries – it was taking over. The older ones, the leaders of the empire, the bureaucracy, needed to go. They were stale and dying. He was young, the chosen one. If there was war, so be it. He could lead.

But he could not do it unless she was by his side. His sunflower. The final missing piece. He needed a queen. From the first time he'd laid eyes on her…

But Demyan…Ivan's fists tightened and then loosened. Demyan was rectifying his mistake. If this turned out to be his sunflower, Ivan would forgive him. Or at least he planned to. The last - and only - time they'd been together had been so brief, she hadn't understood. She needed to understand, he needed to explain.

He found himself once more by the window. A fresh sunflower in hand, he situated it gently in the vase. Once she was by his side, he would be unstoppable. He just needed to bide his time and be patient. He found himself absently tracing the scar she gave him, her makers mark. She'd made him this way, made him stronger. With her he was a king.

He could hardly wait to see her again.

**(A/N) **And here we are, almost a full year later, _two years after the first chapter was posted_,…and it's updated. Finally. Hallelujah. Thanks for everyone who's stuck it through. Things have been crazy this past year with school and getting ready for college (which starts in the fall by the way). So, much excitement. Thanks to my friend Schmo for encouraging me to continue this. Happy Birthday, Schmo! This chapter's for you!

If you have any questions, feel free to send me a PM.

And yes…creepy Ivan is creepy Ivan, I'm sorry.


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